Fatal Near Loss
by Neoinean
Summary: A series of coincidences and miscommunications leads Richie to falsely assume that Duncan's dead, and we all know what happens when we assume...
1. Surprise!

Universe: A virtual "6th" season wherein "Modern Prometheus" was the finale of season 5 and ignores all events in the "real" season 5 finale and all of season 6, as well as the last movie. This season takes place 1997-1998

Summary: A series of miscommunications and coincidences causes Richie to (falsely) assume that Duncan's dead, and we all know what happens when we assume…

Disclaimer: If I owned them why would I waste my time posting to fanfic sites? I'd be off making lots and lots of money! But since I'm not, I therefore don't, nor do I pretend to.

* * *

**Monday**

"What a crappy weekend!" Joe exclaimed as he and Duncan entered the dojo. It was just after two a.m.

"I've had better," said Duncan as he dropped Joe's suitcase and his own duffle and shut and locked the door behind them.

"I wonder why Methos wasn't there," Joe mused.

"Yeah," Duncan agreed. "I thought you said those two were good friends?"

"I thought they were," said Joe. Then, after they had left the hallway and entered the main room: "thanks again for the ride."

"No problem," Duncan dismissed as he picked up the bags again and headed for the elevator.

"No, really MacLeod. You didn't have to," Joe insisted earnestly, putting a hand on the highlander's shoulder.

"What was the alternative? Tell you I'm too busy?" Duncan asked with mild sarcasm, making light of the situation.

"I could have taken the bus, or a cab."

"If you had taken the bus you wouldn't have gotten there in time."

"But you took an awful risk."

"I did what any friend would do." Duncan was still trying to make light of a situation that Joe wasn't about to let him just brush off as an ordinary road trip.

"An immortal driving his watcher to the funeral of one of the most highly respected former North American chapter directors nearly four hundred miles away? Sure, that's an everyday occurrence," Joe exclaimed, exasperated.

"And letting a friend miss the funeral of his mentor _is?_" Duncan returned.

"I guess not in the Scottish highlands."

"Besides Joe, I haven't been down to the Oregon coast in years."

"Someone could have recognized you. Then what would have happened?"

"But they didn't."

"But they could have!"

Duncan sighed. He was too tired to be having this conversation now. "Look Joe," he said, putting the bags down again and turning to his friend. "I know you had no intentions of having me drive you, but with your van in the shop you couldn't have arranged another ride in time for the funeral." He was speaking as though explaining something complex to a small child, with the same air of patience mixed with exasperation. "To take the bus would be cutting time too close for comfort and a cab would cost you nearly five hundred bucks. You know me, and I'd like to think that we're good friends. Do you honestly think that I, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, would let a friend miss his mentor's funeral, regardless of whether or not he had openly asked me for help?" Duncan gave a touch of the brogue to his name and title for emphasis.

Joe was about to protest when he saw the sincerity in the highlander's eyes. "But did you have to stay the weekend?"

"And let you bus or cab back?"

"I could have arranged a ride with Mike," Joe insisted.

"And do what for the week he was visiting his family in Salem? Could you afford that hotel for a week while keeping the bar closed?"

Joe sighed, admitting defeat at last. In truth he was grateful for the highlander's presence. He went out of the way for him, putting himself in a potentially dangerous situation in the process, without even a second thought. Not to mention his presence during the emotionally draining ordeal of burying the man he saw as a second father was like a calm port in a raging storm.

"But did you have to stay at the same hotel as the five hundred or so watchers that turned out for the event?" Joe asked, more to make a point then to rehash the argument. He felt guilty for putting Duncan in such potential danger and no amount of rationalizing or logic—or even friendship—could change that.

Duncan just grinned sheepishly and half shrugged in response. He opened the elevator and made to grab the bags again.

"Thanks for letting me crash here, too," Joe added, making sure that the immortal knew just how grateful for everything he had done for him he really was.

Duncan merely laughed. "I just didn't feel like driving all the way across town and back to drop you off. It's… two seventeen a.m."

"But you would have if I asked you to."

Duncan was about to retort by saying that after such an emotional ordeal Joe really just didn't want to be alone and sought refuge amongst his true friends, but he was cut off by the buzz of an approaching immortal.

"Is it Richie?" Joe asked, recognizing the look on Duncan's face. Richie was supposed to spend the Columbus holidays with Duncan.

"Probably," said Duncan, putting the bags down and fishing his Katana out of its hidden pocket in the lining of his coat.

"Richie?" A voice called from the outer hallway, proving that it was indeed not his student. Duncan recognized the voice just before otherwise unidentified individual stepped through the doorway into the main room.

"Connor!" "Duncan!" They spoke at the exact same time, with mirroring tones of great surprise.

Duncan stowed his sword and crossed the room, a large grin on his face. He hadn't seen his teacher and kinsman since the time of Tessa's funeral.

Connor, on the other hand, still held his sword, pointed down with outstretched arms, in readiness. He was as white as sheet, his eyes wide and unbelieving.

"Are you alright, kinsman?" Duncan asked. He had expected to at least shake hands with his teacher, but stopped automatically out of sword's reach when he saw Connor's stance hadn't changed when his expression had.

This seemed to bring Connor out of his trance. He blinked a few times, hard, as if to be sure his eyes weren't playing tricks on him.

"Connor?" Duncan repeated hesitantly.

Connor's expression suddenly changed. He dropped his sword unceremoniously and closed the gap between them in one stride. Then he threw his arms around Duncan in a fierce embrace. Taken by surprise, it took Duncan a second to respond, but then he returned the hug with enthusiasm. He heard Connor muttering _thank you_ over and over again, softly to himself, in Gaelic. Then to Duncan's increasing surprise, Connor didn't break off once the embrace was returned. Historically a man of ritualistic stoicism, Duncan was surprised and slightly worried by this uncharacteristic show of emotion. Connor offered one last Gaelic blessing heavenward, and over Duncan's shoulder Joe saw the elder MacLeod quickly and deftly wipe away the tears that had fallen down his face. His composure was quickly regained and then he returned his student and kinsman to arms length, regarding him as though they hadn't seen each other in centuries as opposed to a few brief years.

That momentary spell was broken as Duncan's painfully inquisitive look was met with a fist. In one punch Connor splayed Duncan flat. He slid a few feet across the wooden floor and remained there, out cold.

"What the hell!" Joe exclaimed, quickly crossing over to Connor and the unconscious Duncan.

"Where's Richie?" Connor asked icily.

Joe tightened his grip on his cane. "We haven't seen him," he said tightly.

"Obviously!" Connor's tone spoke volumes of his negative totals of patience.

"Actually we thought you were him coming in. He was supposed to spend the weekend with Duncan," Joe offered, trying to ease the tension radiating from the elder immortal.

"Was supposed to?" Connor's tone changed. It wasn't as exasperated but it didn't lose any of its frost.

"Something came up and Duncan and I wound up in Oregon this weekend. I don't know if Richie actually stayed here because we haven't caught him in if he did." Connor's gaze shifted quickly to the still-unconscious Duncan. "It wasn't an immortal," Joe added quickly. However, he wasn't about to divulge the true purpose of their visit.

Connor's expression softened slightly, as if the proverbial gears were turning. "Did Richie know you weren't going to be in town?" he asked carefully.

"Duncan called and left him the message," Joe answered, unsure of where this was going.

"But did either of you _actually_ speak to him?"

"Well, no, but—"

Connor didn't allow Joe to finish his statement. Instead he walked straight past him into the office. Joe cursed aloud and followed, and found Connor using the office phone.

"What exactly are you doing?" he asked, seeing Connor dial too many digits for it to be a local call.

Connor raised a finger to signal that he needed a minute. "I don't think Richie got your message," he said heavily, handing Joe the phone.

* * *

Duncan regained consciousness in relatively short order. He massaged his jaw and sat up groggily, trying to piece together what just happed. Connor had arrived at this time of night, looked at Duncan as though he was seeing a ghost, embraced him in a hug that conveyed more emotion than Duncan could ever remember seeing from his teacher, and then he promptly knocked him out with one well-placed punch. Duncan massaged his jaw, knowing that a few moments ago it had been broken. He then heard Connor and Joe talking in his office and stood to join them, debating whether or not to punch his clansman in return before or after asking for an explanation. He stooped to pick up Connor's discarded Katana as an afterthought and marched into the office to find out what the hell just happened.

When he reached the office he saw Joe holding the phone receiver with a horrified look on his face and Connor sitting in the desk chair, his head in one hand shielding his eyes.

"You dropped this, coz," said Duncan, standing in the doorway and offering the Katana to his teacher, hilt first.

Connor looked up and regarded Duncan quizzically for a moment, and then stood quickly and went to retrieve his sword. "Thanks," he said rather sheepishly as he returned it to the inner pocket of his trench coat. It was as if he just realized that he'd been without it.

"You mind telling me what this is all about?" Duncan asked, his resolve to give his teacher a taste of his own medicine melting when he saw how exhausted—both physically and emotionally, Connor really looked.

"Trouble," said Joe, coming out of a trance of his own.

"Trouble?" Duncan echoed questioningly as he walked over to his desk.

"Big trouble," Connor affirmed as he pushed the button to replay the last-played message in his voicemail box. Joe hit another button to enable the speakerphone and there was the customary computerized 'beep' before a voice came through, sounding distant and mechanical through the electronic device, but it was still instantly recognizable.

It was Richie.

_Connor… I don't know how to say this so I'll just say it. Mac's… Duncan's_, the voice nearly broke, _dead_. A moment of ominous electronic silence, then: _I've worked out who_._ The bastard's tryin' to leave town. I'm gonna try and catch him at the airport…_ More electronic silence, this pause being longer than the last. _I've left my key under the front doormat. At the dojo. All the information is upstairs on the counter… I don't know when you'll get this message. Hopefully you check you messages often in case—_ Richie suddenly cut himself off. The uncensored anguish in his voice was physically painful to hear. It was obvious that the young immortal was struggling to maintain his composure. _This son of a bitch is mine_. This time there was anger and finality in Richie's voice. _I'm sorry_. An electronic beep signaled the end of the message, the computerized female voice kicking in a moment later asking Duncan how he wanted to proceed.

"Dear God," Duncan breathed, slipping into Gaelic. "How?"

"I don't know, my friend," said Connor in English. "I received that message this morning. I was in India on business—_antique_ business," he amended quickly for Duncan's sake.

"So he probably left that message—"

"Eight thirty last night, New York time," Connor finished for Duncan.

"That's five thirty Pacific Time," Joe translated.

"Would we feel him from here?" Connor asked, moving quickly out of the office towards the elevator.

"No," said Duncan, immediately following him. "The buzz won't kick in until you are almost at the second floor."

Joe hung up the phone and replaced the receiver before heading out, just behind Duncan. The three entered the elevator and Duncan turned the key, sending it aloft.

No buzz greeted them. Not even when the elevator docked and Duncan threw the grate up.

"Richie!" Joe called as the exited the elevator.

"He's not here," said Duncan.

Immediately they noticed the state of the apartment. Richie had really done a number on the place. Among other things, the table was carved cleanly in two, one half splintered by many blows. Joe and Duncan both swore under their breath as they entered the kitchen area.

"What's this then?" Connor asked, mostly to himself, as he found a pile of papers on the kitchen counter. "Jean-Pierre Renault?"

"That must be him," said Joe.

Duncan swore vehemently again in Gaelic, prompting Connor to look up with an amused expression on his face. Joe made mental note to ask one of them what it meant at a later date.

"I take it you know him then?" Connor said, his amused tone would have fooled anyone but those who knew him best.

"We ran into each other in Marseilles, 1740-something. He's a headhunter, kills for the thrill of it with no remorse. And he cheats."

Connor repeated Duncan's curse.

"You think he's here for you?" Joe asked Duncan.

"Richie did," said Connor. Then: "It says here that you two fought, but that you left without taking his head." Connor was puzzled.

"I was lucky to escape with my life," Duncan defended.

"Wait a minute Mac," said Joe, his watcher instincts, momentarily dulled by fatigue and the nature of the evening thus far, were finally kicking in. "Isn't that when you blew up the baron's stable?"

"I only meant to set him on fire," Duncan defended. "How was I supposed to know there were powder kegs beneath the floorboards?"

"Ouch," said Connor. "How many?"

"Only a half dozen."

"Ouch," Joe echoed.

"No wonder he wants your head," said Connor.

"On top of being a headhunting scumbag already," Joe added.

"Richie…" Duncan breathed, suddenly fearful. There was a half-second pause. Then:

"I'll call headquarters, see if either Richie's or Renault's watchers have filed any reports yet."

"The kitchen phone's ripped out," Connor informed the watcher.

"Bedroom," said Duncan.

"Right." Joe hurried into Duncan's bedroom faster than either immortal had surmised a man with a two prostheses could move.

"I need a drink," Connor declared, his voice making the statement sound very true.

"Liquor cabinet's in the living room," Duncan said absently, inspecting Renault's file more closely.

"It's empty," Connor said shortly thereafter.

"What?" Duncan quickly joined his kinsman in the living room and discovered that Connor was in fact correct. All of the bottles were missing. He cursed again.

"Over there!" Connor pointed to a stash of the remains of empty spirit bottles in the corner. They were small bottles, but the alcohol formerly contained in them was old, potent, and exotic.

"He… must have thrown them there, from here," Duncan concluded haltingly.

"That looks suspiciously like that bottle of brandy I gave you last Christmas," said Connor, eying a broken bottle beneath the coffee table, the spilled remains of it staining the table and the floor.

"It was…"

Duncan waked over and picked up the top of the bottle by the stem. It looked suspiciously like it had been broken over something, most likely the coffee table. "Richie…" Duncan didn't know which emotions were strongest: the worry he felt not knowing whether or not his student was dead or alive, the guilt he was already feeling in case Renault had taken his head, or the crushing weight of the realization that Richie had done this in the aftermath of learning of his supposed death. Richie had a very difficult time expressing his emotions, but the broken bottle clearly showed anger. And grief. And pain. And regret.

And love.

Connor walked slowly up behind Duncan and placed his hand on his student's shoulder, clearly understanding how Richie felt and also empathizing with Duncan over the worry of the potential loss of his student.

"Mac!" Came a strained cry form the bedroom. It was Joe.

Duncan dropped the brandy bottle shard and he and Connor practically sprinted to the bedroom. Connor was in the lead and stopped short in the doorway, causing Duncan to nearly run into him. He was about to protest when he saw exactly what made Connor stop so suddenly:

Richie.


	2. The truth according to Richie

**The Previous Thursday**

Richie pushed his bike into high gear, teetering dangerously close to ninety miles per hour. Normally the drive from Seacouver to school took nearly an hour and a half. That was, of course, because Richie was in no great hurry. The trip from school back to Seacouver took him less than an hour.

Today Richie was in a hurry because he was in a good mood. He had convinced his history professor to let him take the midterm a day early so that he could have all of Friday off and spend the long weekend at the dojo with Mac. It was just after five now, and Richie would be home by five thirty. He would make Mac take him to dinner, and Joe if he wasn't busy. They would ask him all sorts of questions about the year thus far, and that's when Richie would show him his history paper: a report of the infamous ghosts of the Clan MacLeod. He had gotten an A of course, but his biggest problem was making the research fit the facts that he already knew.

Richie was in a good mood.

It was five thirty-two when Richie pulled his bike around behind the dojo. He noted that the T-bird wasn't there. _Go figure_, he thought. _Well it's not like he was expecting me 'til tomorrow_.

Richie grabbed his saddlebag from the bike and headed upstairs. He paused in the elevator after lifting the grate, taking in the comfort of the familiar surroundings. It was the first time he'd been home since going off to college in September. Granted he'd had an apartment of his own, but Duncan had decided that he should save on rent and commuting time and just live at school, crashing at the dojo over the breaks since he'd be there most of the time anyway.

Richie took the laundry bag out of his saddlebag and went to the washing machine. Bringing his dirty laundry home was a pain, but it saved a bunch of quarters. He decided that he would wait for Duncan to get back before doing anything about dinner.

So he waited. And waited. And waited.

It was nearly ten when Richie decided that he wasn't going to wait anymore. He didn't know where Duncan was, but wasn't all that worried. After all, the highlander didn't know that anyone was expecting him. _Probably has a hot date or something_. Richie scribbled a note and left it on the counter:

_Got home early.  
Went to Joe's.  
Join me there.  
Richie_

He grabbed his helmet and his jacket, carefully arranging his sword so it wouldn't interfere with his riding (something he learned the hard way), and headed out the door.

Richie figured that Duncan was at Joe's and by the time he got there he would have staked money on it. When he found the parking lot empty he circled around back. Neither the T-Bird nor Joe's van were there, nor were Mike's Honda or even Methos's SUV. _Methos is in Europe dipshit_, Richie chided himself. Still, the prospect of Joe's being closed on a Thursday was new to him. It used to be open every day, with Mike and Joe shuffling days off. Richie circled around front again and parked the bike. He went to the door to check the hours. _Still open every day. What the…_

That's when Richie noticed the sign. It was scrawled in Mike's sprawling script on a piece of notebook paper and taped on the glass.

_Closed Due To A Death In The Family_

Richie swore. If it were Joe's family then Mike would be here, and Richie probably would have received an email telling him that Joe wouldn't be around this weekend. If it were Mike's family then Joe would be here. _But they're _both_ gone!_

Then it hit him. _Must be something to do with the watchers._ Richie sighed and got back on his bike, feeling thoroughly out of the loop. _So Joe and Mike are on watcher business somewhere, Methos is in Switzerland, and Mac's on a hot date somewhere_. _Welcome home Richie_. He strapped the helmet on and, dejected, drove back to the dojo.

Richie stopped at an all night burger place first, easing his irrational feelings about being left out with lots and lots of grease. He knew these selfish reflections were just a mask for the growing concern in the pit of his stomach, but he adamantly refused to let those thoughts see daylight.

Richie got back to the dojo around eleven, his spirits lifted by the _fact_ that Mac was on some hot date that he'd probably be bringing back to his place, where he could surprise them. He would smile his best innocent smile and tell Duncan that if he would give him the money he'd crash at a hotel that night. Watching the moral dilemma play itself out across his teacher's face would more than make up for spending the evening alone thus far. Richie showered and changed into sweats. He settled down on the couch in front of the TV and waited for Duncan and his new femme fataleto return home.

And that's how Richie woke up.

He was still on the couch, his late-late-late night movie having been replaced by infomercials. Richie groaned. It was seven a.m. Knowing that he would have either heard the elevator or felt the presence of another immortal, he realized that Duncan hadn't come home at all. A check of the bedroom confirmed it: the bed hadn't been slept in. _So he spent the night at her place._ Richie mumbled something about never having such luck with women and made his way to the coffee machine.

By eight o'clock Richie had indulged in three cups of coffee and a full egg and pancake breakfast. He couldn't blame Mac for not being around. After all, he wasn't supposed to be back until this afternoon. Richie could, however, make himself quite comfortable in the apartment and use as many of his former teacher's things as possible. Petty and undeserving revenge of course, but Richie hadn't had a _real_ meal in weeks.

By nine o'clock Richie had decided to go for a run. It would kill time and give him an excuse to use up more of Duncan's hot water. He scribbled another note to that effect and headed to the door. Absently Richie wondered if his teacher would notice that he was in a bit better shape since going back to school, eating less and exercising more doing its job correctly.

At some point Richie found himself standing outside the townhouse that was Methos's apartment, _Adam Pierson _residing on the second floor. He'd never actually been inside, but he remembered which windows were his, so he figured that he could place it well enough once he got in the building.

Once inside Richie ran up the stairs, thankful that Methos had given him a key, _for emergencies only or not even Mac can save my head_, Richie mused, remembering their conversation as he opened the door to the apartment. Dust covers adorned the furniture and Richie sighed. _Methos hasn't come back, so it can't be too serious_. Richie locked up the apartment and left to finish his run, only belatedly realizing exactly _why_ had had gone to see Methos's apartment in the first place.

Richie finished his run around eleven, every muscle screaming at him for the oppressive duration of the workout. He checked the back lot and saw that the T-bird was still missing. _He could have come back and left again_ Richie thought hopefully as he entered the dojo, but that thought was proved incorrect when Richie ascended to the apartment. His note was still on the counter. Richie crumpled the note and threw it at the trash bin with frustration. He grabbed a glass of water and headed to take a shower, wondering what type of woman could keep Mac in bed this late.

Richie stayed in the shower until the water ran cold. Upon emerging he noticed that it was nearly noon, and Mac still hadn't come back yet. He went to the phone and dialed the voicemail for the dojo. A few messages from patrons wondering when it would be opening again that dated since Wednesday. _So Mac was gone all day yesterday_…He decided to not delete the messages, but the uneasy feeling he had been ignoring only intensified.

With a sigh Richie picked up the phone again. He knew it was prying, and that he probably shouldn't, but Richie needed to do something about that uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He called Mac's personal voicemail number, thanking God that he hadn't changed the key code after Richie had 'accidentally' discovered it. There were a few messages from telemarketers, but nothing substantial.

Then the last message played.

_Hey Mac, it's Joe. Meet me at the auto shop over on Jackson Street, and don't take your time._  
Beep.

That feeling in the pit of Richie's stomach grew to immeasurable size. He hung up the phone, his hand shaking. _Joe…_ His voice sounded agitated on the machine. Richie's mind flashed to the sign on the door to the bar: _death in the family…_ Richie only barely remembered to grab his bike helmet before running out the door. He took the stairs, or, at least some of them, and was out the door in seconds flat.

Richie sped over to Jackson Street and found the repair shop. A quick glance around and he spotted Joe's van. The mechanics were inside working in the garage, and Richie calmly walked up to one.

"Excuse me," he said, addressing one of the mechanics, who then looked up from the hood of a BMW in annoyance.

"Can I help you?" He asked, his voice not masking his displeasure at having been disturbed.

"I'm a friend of Joe Dawson's. He was wondering when his van would be ready," Richie said innocently, surprising himself by appearing as just the errand boy and not having his voice give his concern away.

The mechanic's face twisted in thought. "Oh yeah," he said at last, "the clunker with the hand controls that dropped its transmission. I won't have the parts 'til after the holiday."

Richie surprised himself even more by keeping the smile off his face. Joe's car had broken down, plain and simple. _He just called Mac for a ride! No wonder he sounded upset… _Richie accepted this information, but still wasn't completely satisfied.

"Tuesday?" he asked, sounding exasperated. "But he dropped the thing off here on…"

"Wednesday," the mechanic supplied. "But hey, parts for that model year aren't exactly easy to come by."

_Wednesday? That's the same date as the dojo voicemail…_"I guess so," Richie agreed, trying to sound charming and unassuming. "My friends and I aren't gonna like having to cart his ass around all weekend though."

"Yeah," agreed the mechanic. "The guy who picked him up didn't look too happy about it."

Richie forced all the surge of emotion under and did his best retain the neutral look and tone he'd been using. "Mac doesn't like taking the T-bird anywhere near repair shops. He's kinda superstitious that way," Richie informed the mechanic, silently hoping.

"It was one sweet ride," the mechanic said wistfully. "I would kill to get my hands under that hood."

Richie laughed, mostly through relief at what the mechanic had said. "Yes it is," he agreed. He was about to turn to go when:

"It didn't even stop here and I've already got people askin' about it."

Richie clenched his jaw before forcing himself to relax. "Oh?" he asked casually.

"Yeah. Some guy came through here Wednesday, just before closin,' sayin' he'd seen the T-bird here and asked me if I knew whether or not the owner was interested in sellin' it."

"Really," said Richie, failing in his attempt at sounding surprised.

"Yeah. To be honest, if your friend was sellin' I'd be interested too, not that I could outbid that guy on a mechanic's salary."

"He was rich?"

"Let's just say blue collar life doesn't seem to be in his nature."

Richie nodded, the uneasy feeling returning. "Did he leave a name? Number?"

"Why? You think your friend might be interested in sellin'?"

"Maybe. If the price is right."

"He left a card. Hold on, I have it here someplace."

Richie watched the mechanic disappear in to the repair shop's office. _Immortals have lots of money. Especially old immortals._ Richie felt the uneasy feeling start to rise out of his stomach.

"Here." The mechanic handed over the card.

"Jean-Pierre Renault." Richie read the name on the card. _Mac's been in France too often to not have lots of immortal French enemies…_ "Thanks," he said as he pulled out his wallet. He slipped the card inside and handed the mechanic three twenties and a card of his own. "If he comes by again, give me a call."

"Hey, sure thing, pal," said the mechanic said with a smile, shoving the money and card into his wallet.

Richie thanked the man and went back to his bike. His uneasy feeling was nothing if not increased as he headed back to the dojo. _Mac picked Joe up on Wednesday and hasn't checked his voicemail since then. He and Joe are missing, and so is Mike. And the bar's closed because of a death in the family._ These thoughts spun through Richie's head as he drove. He wasn't able to ignore it any more; he was flat out worried.

It was nearly two when Richie got back to the dojo. The T-bird wasn't there, and upon ascending to the apartment Richie knew Mac wasn't home either. He grabbed a beer and sat down at the table, hoping the alcohol would take the edge off. _Must be why Methos drinks so much of it_. He grabbed a piece of notepaper and a pen from the counter and returned to the table, making notes of what he knew so far:

_Mac and Joe haven't been seen since Wednesday. The bar is closed due to a death in someone's family. Methos is still out of town. Joe's car broke down. Some wealthy French dude has been asking about the T-bird._

Richie did not like the direction the evidence was pointing.

"There has to be a rational explanation for all this!" he exclaimed aloud, staring at the paper like it was his chemistry homework. There had to be a pattern to it, but damned if Richie could see it. "I need more information," he announced. Then he downed the rest of his beer and rose to his feet.

Richie went downstairs to the dojo and headed into the office. He went through the things on the desk, and the drawers, nothing providing anything of relevance.

"Wednesday's mail," he mused as he began rifling through it. It was all bills and junk mail. At a loss for anything else to do, Richie pulled out Duncan's Rolodex. It wasn't that full, comprising primarily of business associates. He sighed and picked up the phone.

It was two thirty when he had finished with the Rolodex. Mac's lawyer, insurance agent, travel agent, electrician, plumber, phone company, power company, internet service provider, mechanic, and dojo equipment supplier hadn't heard from him recently, and he left messages on the answering machines of the cable company, building inspector's office, accountant, and exterminator. Richie decided not to call Detective Bennett or the hospital where Anne worked just yet.

Richie banged his head on the desk a few times but found it did nothing to ease his worries. He found himself staring at the office computer.

"No clues here," Richie announced dejectedly a half hour later. He had just finished checking Duncan's business email address, which he kept specifically for the dojo, and inspecting the dojo records—financial and otherwise, and had come up with nothing. It was now three o'clock on Friday. _Mac would be expecting me by now…_ Richie wanted to head over to Joe's again and then maybe to Joe's apartment to see if he could learn anything, but he didn't want to be gone in case Mac showed up, this being the time he was expected to return from college.

For lack of anything else to do, Richie trashed the junk mail and paid the bills, being sure to enter the correct amounts into the computer program that kept track of such things. Fifteen minutes later four neat envelopes were sealed and ready to be mailed. Richie decided to check the checkbook against the computer program to see if anything didn't match. _Not like Mac would let anyone blackmail him…_ A half hour later and Richie had checked every financial record from now back three years to when Duncan had bought the place, and nothing seemed out of place. Richie sighed and went back upstairs. It was a quarter to four.

Upstairs, Richie grabbed another beer. He added the names of people and companies that he had called, crossing out the ones that had confirmed they hadn't had any recent contact with 'Mr. MacLeod.' He then added _nothing financially out of whack with the dojo_ to the list of clues.

Richie sat in silence drinking his beer and staring at the piece of paper. _Like solving Chemistry problems in Greek_, he thought to himself. At just after four Richie decided that it was time for drastic measures. He grabbed another beer from the fridge and went into the bedroom and took Mac's personal phonebook out of the nightstand drawer. He flipped through it absently, wondering who he could rationalize calling.

The thing that struck him the most was the amount of names that had been crossed out. Sean Burns, Darius, Charlie DeSalvo (the only mortal Richie knew), Hugh Fitzcairn, Rebecca Horne, Koltec (that one made Richie shiver), Mei Ling Shen, and a bunch of other names that Richie didn't recognize.

"Gathering's a bitch," he mused absently as he took another swig of the beer.

Richie flipped through the book again, trying to decide whom he could call. He was surprised to learn that he recognized fewer names of those still living than he did of those who had died. Amanda had just a pager listed, but Grace Chandal had a cell number that he might try. He saw Anne's home phone and debated giving her a call. The proprietor of the general store ten miles out from the island was a must as well since Mac always stops there on his way to the cabin. Connor had several numbers and Richie recognized some of them as having a New York area code. Methos's numbers were for his apartments here and in Paris, neither of which would do him any good. Carl Robinson had an address but no phone number. Then Richie saw his dorm number listed. Taking another sip of his beer for courage, Richie picked up the phone and began dialing.

Twenty minutes later Richie didn't have any more information than when he began. He paged Amanda but doubted if she'd get back to him, even if he did leave Mac's phone number. Grace hadn't heard from the highlander in months and Richie had to lie through his teeth in order for her to believe that he wasn't concerned and merely curious about his teacher's whereabouts. He left a message on Anne's answering machine, figuring that she had to be at the hospital. The proprietor of the general store hadn't seen him since the summer. Rachel Ellenstein had said that Connor was out of the country on business, so he probably didn't know anything. Richie debated having Rachel pass the message on to Connor, but decided against scaring the elder MacLeod unless he had definitive proof that something was wrong. Richie wasn't surprised to get no answer at Methos's Paris apartment, and he couldn't leave a message since there was no answering service. _Probably disables it when he's gonna be gone for months_, Richie thought.

The only number Richie had recognized that he hadn't called was his own. _What the hell… _He picked up the phone again and dialed his room, hoping to catch his roommate at home.

"Hello," came the familiar voice over the phone.

"Pete, it's Richie."

"Oh, hey man. 'Sup?"

Richie's noticed that his roommate didn't sound like there was anything wrong. _So the bad guy hasn't tried to find me at school yet_, Richie thought with an air of cynicism.

"Not much. Hey listen, Pete, did I get any messages after I left?"

Richie heard his roommate curse.

"Yeah man, I'm sorry. Your dad called just after you left."

"He did!" Richie exclaimed, sounding more enthusiastic than he wanted to. "What did he say?"

"Not much. Just that he had some things to take care of and that he might not be there when you got in."

Richie fought against the bile rising in his throat. _Things? As in 'immortal things'?_

"You did tell him I was on my way home right?"

Silence.

"Pete, right?"

"I'm sorry Richie," was the regretful reply, and this time it was his roommate that heard a curse through the line. "Hey man, is everything alright?"

Richie noted the concern in his roommate's voice. _Poor Pete, he doesn't deserve an immortal for a roomie_. "I hope so," he said heavily.

Richie hung up the phone and went back into the kitchen. He added _Mac left on 'business' Wednesday_ to his list of clues. He then made a new column of names and crossed out Grace, the island, Methos, Connor, and his roommate. That left just Anne and Amanda to get back to him since the businesses he had called wouldn't be calling until after the holiday weekend.

It was nearly five p.m. on Friday.

Richie finally decided that he couldn't ignore the rumblings in his stomach. He fixed himself a sandwich as he considered his options. _Remind me to apologize to Mac for all those times I came back late to the loft_, he thought to himself. Now knowing that he had been pre-immortal and therefore detectable to the radar of every other immortal out there made Mac's overbearing concern not seem so misplaced.

As Richie ate, his mind wandered to all those times he had waited for Mac to come back from a challenge. When he was first living at the antique store, Tessa would worry the most. He had comforted her, reassuring her of just how good Duncan really was. After all, he had seen him kill Slan Quince on the bridge and easily beat other seasoned immortals like Felicia and Reinhart. Mac could easily tackle whole gangs of mortals provided they weren't well organized or heavily armed, having done so several times in Richie's defense. Even the times when he hadn't witnessed Mac's challenges, he always had this belief that somehow he would manage to win, like he was invincible. Mac was always right, didn't have any faults, and knew exactly what to do in every situation. It's safe to say that Richie had been a little star-struck while he had been mortal.

It took Grayson to instill in him the sense that Duncan was not infallible. He remembered going to the cabin to train. It was holy ground, and for some reason Mac had wanted Richie with him. He could have trained harder and gotten some meditation time in had Richie not been there, but he brought Richie along anyway. Richie vividly remembers their conversation by the fire that night. Mac hadn't admitted that he was afraid to face Grayson, but who wouldn't be at least a little timid of facing an ancient immortal who'd spent over three times your lifetime as a warlord? It was a side of him that Richie had never seen before. Duncan had also told him stories about Darius, which Richie remembered only much later as having been when he had first mentioned the prospect of a dark quickening to Duncan. _Ironic… _

It was also when Mac had mentioned Connor for the first time since telling Richie of his immortality. _If you ever have a problem, you can go to Connor. He'll help you_. Richie didn't realize it at the time, but Mac had been planning for all contingencies. If Grayson took his head he knew Connor wouldn't rest until he had avenged him, but more importantly he knew that Connor would teach Richie when he became immortal if Duncan wasn't around to do the job. The thought amused Richie momentarily: _the chivalric white knight who worries over every good cause he finds and helps every friend or mortal that needs him with no real thought to himself has his own Sir Lancelot to worry over him_. Richie remembered Connor fighting with Duncan over who would fight Slan and had to laugh. He had argued similarly over fighting Mako, and Harrish Clay.

These thoughts quickly turned sour, however. Telling Connor that Duncan was dead was _not_ something he was looking forward to doing. Especially since if Duncan really _was_ dead, then he'd want to be the one to avenge him and he relished having _that_ argument with Connor even less.

Richie was only saved from the morbidity by the ringing phone. He sprinted to answer it.

"Mac!" he practically yelled into the receiver hopefully.

"Richie?" came a woman's voice. It was Anne.

"Oh, hi Anne," he said, trying not to sound disappointed and failing miserably at it.

"Richie, what's wrong?" Anne's voice was full of concern.

"Oh, nothing. I was just hoping you'd be Mac calling. You haven't heard from him, have you?"

"Not since Mary's birthday," she said hesitantly. "Why, is something wrong?"

"Nah, I'm just trying to get a hold of him," Richie reassured, sounding more casual than he was feeling.

"Ok," said Anne at length. He could tell that she wasn't entirely convinced. "Call me again if you need anything."

"I will. Bye."

Richie hung up and went to cross Anne's name off the list. It was five thirty. Richie only debated a moment before going to the closet to get Mac's laptop. He removed it from the case and set it up on the table, plugging in the network cable. He knew it was prying, and if Duncan found out he probably wouldn't be thrilled, but Richie signed online to hack his personal email account.

"If he's alive I'll take whatever consequences he hands me," Richie said out loud to himself, making mental note that Duncan only puts his laptop away when he's planning on going away. _Or fighting a challenge?_ Richie wondered. Several minutes later Richie was staring at Duncan's Outlook Express login page trying to figure out his password. Knowing Mac to be a creature of habit, as Methos had pointed out numerous times, Richie guessed that it would be a name or number that held some personal significance and not some random code. 'GlenFinnan' was the password to the downstairs computer, and Richie wasn't surprised to see that it didn't work up here. _Mac's more careful than that_. After nearly fifteen minutes of trying Richie finally guessed correctly: 'leonasset.'

"Tessa's name backwards," Richie mused, knowing that Duncan probably hadn't changed his password in years.

Unfortunately all he found in the inbox was spam, and both the outbox and the trash folder were empty. _Of course_.

Richie was beginning to believe that he had to accept the possibility that Duncan might be dead. The thought was not a pleasant one. He shut the laptop down and put it away, hoping that Mac wouldn't find out about his little hacking adventure _when he comes home!_ Richie went back to the table and stared at the sheet of paper, adding _nothing out of place on Mac's laptop_ to the list with a heavy sigh.

Richie decided that since he was having difficulty proving that Duncan was alive he would just have to try and prove that he was dead,_ knowing_ that he would turn up evidence to the contrary. Richie grabbed another beer and sat down with the yellow pages.

Twenty minutes later Richie knew that Duncan's body hadn't turned up at any hospitals or morgues, and no John Does matched his description. He had spoken to the police (thankfully to no one they had run into before) and learned that no one had filed a missing person's report and nor had his name come up in any police investigations. _That's a switch_, Richie thought, trying his best to find amusement in all this. When he finally hung up the phone he returned to the table and the notepad. _Hospitals, morgues, and cops dead ends_ he added to his list of clues.

Richie then considered his options. He couldn't file a missing persons report yet, even though it appeared that Mac had been missing since Wednesday. He would have to wait twenty-four hours after he was _supposed_ to see him, so as far as the police were concerned Duncan had only been missing for a few hours. His other thought was to report the T-bird stolen, but he wasn't the owner so that idea was out. It was six twenty.

"People don't just disappear off the face of the earth!" Richie stood up and began pacing, frustration and worry making it impossible for him to sit still. _But immortals do_… Richie suddenly remembered that if Mac had lost a challenge then either his opponent or the watchers would most likely dispose of the body through private means. The thought of Mac lying in some shallow, unmarked grave made Richie nearly expunge the beer from his stomach. _Or, if the watchers found him, they could be shipping his body back to Scotland right now…_

"I need to know if this Renault character is immortal or not." _I need a watcher_. Richie grabbed his helmet and headed out the door, leaving a note telling Mac not to leave the dojo under any circumstances until he got back but not believing that Mac would show up to read it.

Richie drove by the bar and circled around. No cars and the sign was still up. _If Joe _and_ Mike are still gone then something has to have gone down._ Richie then decided to head to Joe's house. It was clear across town, but Richie's last concern was for the rush hour traffic. When he got there he rang the doorbell and knocked for a full five minutes. _He's not home or else he would have heard me_. Richie then went around back, removing his pocketknife and lock picks from his pocket.

It took Richie ten minutes to bypass the alarm system that he had insisted Joe have installed. Once inside, Richie made a quick sweep of the house. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The beds hadn't been slept in and the milk had gone bad in the refrigerator. _Joe's been gone a while_. Richie went out the front door and headed for the mailbox. When he opened it he found that it was overflowing. He brought the mail inside the house and picked up the papers as well. The papers were only today's and yesterday's, but the mail dated since Wednesday. _He's been gone since sometime Wednesday afternoon._

Richie checked Joe's answering machine. Only one message wasn't a telemarketer.

_Hey Joe, it's Allen. Just wondering if you're gonna be at the funeral tomorrow. Did you get a hold of the kid? I know he and the old man were close. Give me a call. Bye.  
_Beep._  
_

"Funeral…"

He wasn't about to let that convince him, however. Richie went back upstairs and grabbed Joe's laptop from the desk. _God bless satellite internet!_ Richie knew that the watchers would be a bit harder to hack than Duncan's personal computer so he would need outside help. As an afterthought Richie flipped through Joe's Rolodex and wrote down Mike's address and phone number. Mike didn't answer the phone so Richie decided to pay him a visit. _The guy always liked me, but then again he's my watcher…_

It was dark by the time Richie made it to Mike's apartment. He pressed the buzzer for five minutes before accepting that Mike wasn't home and that no one would let him up to the apartment. _He must be with Joe somewhere_. Richie left Mike's apartment and headed back to the dojo. The T-bird still wasn't there, and when Richie ascended to the apartment he didn't feel anything nor was the note touched. Cursing, Richie went to the phone to call his roommate.

"Hey Pete, it's me again."

"Hey Rich! Did you get a hold of your dad yet?"

"Not yet. Listen, you got any plans for tonight?"

"The guys and I were gonna head to a party. Why?

"Listen Pete, don't go yet. I'll be there in forty-five minutes."

"Alright man. See ya!"

Richie hung up the phone and went back down to his bike, thanking God that he had a hacker for a roommate. It was seven forty-five.

Richie made the drive in thirty minutes and took the stairs to his floor two at a time. He found his roommate and a few of their friends eating pizza and drinking soda.

"That was fast man," said Pete, tossing Richie a coke.

"I was in a hurry," Richie said, casting the coke aside and putting Joe's laptop on his the bed.

"Well grab a slice," said a tall, thin, blond student sitting on his roommate's bed.

"Thanks Brad," said Richie, helping himself.

"The party doesn't start 'til ten. We were gonna pre-game before that in my room," said a shorter brunet student in glasses.

"No thanks Trent," Richie said, in no mood for college antics right now. "Pete, I need to rape your brain."

Richie's roommate turned sharp green eyes up at Richie from the spot on the floor he was occupying.

"Sweet!" said the other student, tossing his long brown hair off his shoulders as he shut the door. "I love watching the man work!"

"Not this time Steve," said Richie, opening the door again to indicate that he wanted the bystanders to leave.

"No way man," said Trent. "If it's illegal there's still no way to prove we were in the room."

"And if it is illegal and you don't let us watch, we'll go tell the RA on you," Brad threatened casually. Pete still hadn't said anything, or even stood up.

Richie suppressed the urge to remove his sword from his jacket and took a deep breath, counting to ten, in French. "Ok," he said at last, seeing no way around the situation. He knew that his friends wouldn't rat Pete out, but he couldn't take the chance. A chorus of cheers rose from the three students as he went over to the bed and activated the laptop.

Pete stood and kneeled in front of the bed, Richie right beside him.

"Lock the door," Pete directed. Steve locked the door and went to take his place with the other three looking over Pete and Richie's shoulders.

"I need to hack an online database," Richie informed him.

"Gonna change your grades, Ryan?" Brad asked. Richie ignored him.

"Connection?" Pete asked.

"Satellite," Richie provided.

After fifteen minutes Pete was finally able to trace the address of the online network. A blank screen with username and password prompts appeared.

"We've only got three tries before it locks us out permanently," Richie warned.

"Do you know the password?" Steve asked.

"What about the username?" Pete added.

"Joseph Dawson, but I don't know what variant to use," Richie said.

Pete flashed a devilish grin and went over to his own laptop. He began retracing his steps to the online watcher database when Richie stopped him.

"Don't use your own computer!" Richie barked in warning, putting Pete's laptop screen down.

"Chill man" Pete said, raising his hands in submission. "I have a program that'll take care of the encryption."

"Well use it on that one then," Richie said, pointing to Joe's laptop. His tone left no room for argument. Pete sighed and went over to his bed, pulling out a Tupperware bin from underneath it.

"Is any of that shit legal?" Steve asked when Pete opened the lid.

"What do you think?" Trent snapped. Pete returned to the laptop with a bootleg CD, which he put in the appropriate drive.

"What's that?" Brad asked.

"Just a little program I came across…"

Richie watched as Pete deftly tapped at the keys and the program installed on Joe's laptop. Shortly thereafter the code-buster was working on accessing the database. Richie watched in amazement, momentarily distracted from the force of his worry.

"Voila!" Pete exclaimed as the username filled in, DawsoJ, followed by nine bold dots for the password.

Richie held his breath. "Push it."

Pete hit the login button and the screen immediately changed. A soft white background appeared, a giant image of the watcher symbol layered on top of it slightly off-center. There were two link options at the bottom of the screen: immortals and watchers.

"Immortals," Richie instructed.

Pete clicked on the link. A search engine appeared containing fields for _name/alias_, _location_, _date_, and _watchers_.

"Dude… What is this?" Brad asked. Richie was at a loss for how to answer him.

"It looks like an online RPG," Trent offered to Richie's great relief.

"I didn't know you were a gamer," Steve teased.

"Since 1993," Richie informed them dryly. Then, to Pete: "Search for Jean-Pierre Renault." The screen flashed to blank while the page loaded.

"What's this game called?" Trent asked.

"The Gathering," Richie answered with a straight-faced.

"Never heard of it," Trent replied.

"This is the moderators' website, isn't it," Steve breathed. "You're cheating."

The truth of the statement struck Richie as ironic. He _was _cheating to get his information. He didn't refute the statement.

Just then the page loaded. A picture of a man in what appeared to be his early forties with wind-blown silver-blond hair appeared. It was a close-up brought to you by a powerful zoom lens. He wore a black coat and a red scarf that was blowing slightly in the wind. The picture was captioned 'Nice, 1995.' Richie's worst fears were starting to be confirmed.

"Who's that?" Brad asked.

"Another player," Richie said icily.

Pete tensed in reflex as he awaited his next instructions. There were several links below the picture: _mortal life/first death_, _teacher information_, _chronology_, _confirmed kills_, _known aliases_, _known associates/enemies_, and _watcher history_. The link to _closing report_ was inactive.

"Are these the character stats?" Steve asked.

Richie nodded. "Something like that. Then to Pete: "Click the associates and enemies option."

Pete did so and a new page appeared with two columns of names: one for friends and one for enemies. Richie clenched his jaw when he saw Duncan's name listed near the top of the known enemies. The list was long, but most of the other name links were inactive. _He doesn't keep his enemies alive for long_.

"Isn't that your dad?" Trent asked when Pete automatically moved the mouse to hover over Duncan's name.

"Yeah." Richie's tone was unreadable. "Go back," he told Pete. Pete did as he was told. "Click on the chronology." Once again the screen flashed blank as it waited to load.

"Your dad's a gamer, too?" Steve asked, astonished.

"Yeah. He stopped for a while when he met my mom. After she died, he got me interested in it to take my mind off things." Richie smiled at how much truth was in that statement.

"So you game together?" Trent asked.

"Very rarely," said Richie. Then the page loaded. The first bullet point said: first death 874, Paris, France – stabbed in a bar fight during a murder gone awry.

"First death?" asked Brad. "How many deaths do you get?"

"If you're an immortal, your first death is how you enter the game," Richie explained. "You don't get much choice in it."

"So if you want to enter the game you have to die?" Steve asked.

"Something like that."

"How'd you 'die'?" Trent asked, putting a bit of inflection on the word 'die.'

"Shot during a robbery," Richie said matter-of-factly. "Scroll down," he instructed Pete.

"Wait, what's that teacher thing?" Steve asked.

Pete scrolled back up. The second bullet said: first teacher – Grayson. Richie swore under his breath. _The guy has to be good then_.

"I get it," said Trent. "Your 'teacher' is like your sponsor right? The one who brought you into the game?"

Again Richie couldn't help but smile. "Pretty much," he said. "Scroll back down."

"So this is like, an invite-only game? You're teacher brings you in by telling you how you died for the first time thus making you immortal?" Trent continued. Richie didn't refute the point.

"Then what's the object of the game?" Steve asked.

"To find other immortals and fight them to the death," Richie answered, paying more attention to the screen than to his friends.

"But I thought you said you were immortal?" Brad asked.

Richie sighed. He figured that he'd have to explain the whole thing to him or else they'd never give up. "I did. Immortals can only die by decapitation, so we fight each other with swords, axes, stuff like that. Killing another immortal is like a power-up. You get points for each immortal you kill, which vary depending on how many immortals they've killed. We can't fight on holy ground and the fights have to be one on one, and no other immortal can interfere once a battle has begun. In the end, there can be only one."

"Cool!" Steve exclaimed.

"Who moderates?" Trent asked. "You know, makes sure you all obey the rules and keep track of the points and stuff."

"The watchers?" Pete supplied nonchalantly. Again Richie didn't refute the statement.

"So this is that dude's character history?" Brad asked, reading the screen as Pete scrolled.

"Yeah…" Richie agreed absently. "Hey Pete scroll to the end, would ya?"

Pete did as he was told. The final bullet read: 8 October 1997 – landed in Seacouver airport from Chicago.

"That's two days ago," Steve informed them.

Richie cursed under his breath and stood up. "Yeah, it is. Pete, would you email all that stuff to me?"

"Sure, Rich."

The others backed away, sensing that their foray into the illegal was over.

"You think that dude's gonna challenge you dad, don't you." Steve announced. It wasn't a question.

"It crossed my mind," Richie admitted, instinctively feeling the weight of his sword in his jacket.

"Hey Rich?" Pete called.

"Yeah?"

"Something's been added to the chronology."

"What?" Richie asked gravely, trying to keep the fear out of his voice.

"He's booked on a flight to Portland that leaves… tomorrow night at six."

Richie inhaled sharply. It wasn't a confirmed kill statement, but why would the guy leave town? _He's obviously not in any hurry_, Richie thought, which lead his thoughts immediately towards the only logical conclusion: _he's already killed Mac, and isn't worried about anyone bothering him about it yet_.

"So, are you like, gonna go warn your dad or something?" Brad asked, returning Richie's mind to the present.

"It's been emailed," Pete declared before Richie could answer the question.

Richie shut the laptop down and picked it up off the bed. "No," he said, tucking it under one arm. "I'm gonna avenge him." Then he turned towards the door.

"But you cheated!" Steve's voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Only in finding the information. The fight is going to be won fair and square," Richie declared, determined.

"Jeez, Rich... " Pete said, standing and regarding his roommate earnestly. The unfinished statement was met with an icy glare that quickly shifted to the other three students in the room.

"Not a word," Richie said to them. His tone caused them to drop whatever wise cracks they were planning on making and just stare blankly at him.

"We wouldn't…" Steve promised softly.

"Yeah man, we'd never…" Trent followed.

Richie just nodded curtly and left the room. Pete caught up with him halfway down the hall.

"Richie!" He called after him.

Richie stopped but didn't turn around. His patience was wearing thin.

"That was no RPG I just hacked," Pete said once he'd caught up with Richie.

Richie sighed. Pete knew his craft too well.

"Richie, what's going on?"

Richie turned around and faced his roommate, his angry, pained eyes meeting Pete's innocent ones. "Nothing," he managed to say at last. He hated having to lie to Pete, but the truth would be worse.

"Nothing my ass!" Pete retorted. "You're a freshman and already one of the best fencers on the team. You keep your foil by your bed at night."

Richie closed his eyes and let out a long breath.

"You're acting like this is real."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Richie didn't sound very convincing.

"Is it?" Pete asked, not buying Richie's explanation.

"I'll see you in class on Tuesday," Richie said, turning back around to continue on his way.

"Yeah, right," Pete scoffed. Richie just kept going.

The ride back to the dojo was methodic. He wasn't thinking about anything but Duncan, navigating by autopilot. _Mac's dead_ was the only thing that rolled through Richie's troubled mind.

He wasn't surprised when the T-Bird wasn't there, nor was he surprised that his note still hadn't been touched. _Mac died Wednesday. Probably tracked him down using the license plate. Mike and Joe are taking care of the watcher stuff. They'll contact me soon._

Richie shrugged out of his jacket, leaving it on the floor. He took his sword over to the table, intending to polish and sharpen it. That's when he saw the notepad. All his hopes at being able to track Duncan's whereabouts had proved futile. Richie picked up the pen and crossed out every name, each slash more deliberate and angry than the last. When scribbling all over the paper didn't work, Richie stood up and grabbed his sword. He swung the sword overhead and brought it down on the table. In his anger he had missed the notebook but severely chipped the table. With renewed rage at the paper, Richie swung his sword again, hitting the paper this time, but he didn't stop there. Richie swung again and this time the solid oak of the tabletop splintered and the table fell in two, the pieces of notebook landing on top of one of the halves. Richie swung into that half repeatedly until there were barely shreds of paper—and table, left. Then Richie stood and stared at the destruction he had caused, but he didn't feel any better for it.

In the aftermath he sighed heavily, mildly surprised that he hadn't started crying yet. _It took me 'til the funeral to cry over Tessa_, he remembered. He and Duncan had been standing side by side, staring at the headstone that was all that's left of their beloved Tessa, long after the funeral had ended and the guests departed. Long after Fitz, Grace, and even Connor had departed. They had been standing silently, lost in their own thoughts, until the banter had started. Somewhere in there his vision blurred. He remembered trying to hide his silent tears, but somehow Duncan had seen them. The next thing he knew Duncan's arms were around him and he was bawling like a baby, and he vaguely remembered Duncan crying too, but he was too focused on himself at the time.

"No!" Richie screamed as he knocked the breadbox off the counter, along with the steak knives, cutting board, and dishes he had used to cook breakfast. _Four years is a new record for you to keep a family, Ryan_ he thought as he wound up a punch to the refrigerator door. He stopped just short of putting all his power into it, his knuckles still contacting the door but not enough to damage it. Then he opened the door and removed all that was left of the beer. _Methos won't mind_, he thought as he used his teeth to open a bottle. He took it—and the rest of them, into the bedroom, kicking off his shoes in the process. Once there he collapsed on top of the bed, determined that he was going to finish every last beer until he passed out or died of alcohol poisoning. He didn't have to worry about Renault until tomorrow evening. Until then he just had to keep the bad thoughts and dreams at bay.

He finally passed out after his eighth beer. The clock on the nightstand said eleven thirty p.m.


	3. Vengeance is served

Richie awoke at noon. He was momentarily surprised to find himself occupying Duncan's bed, but then the memories came thundering back. _Mac's dead…_ Richie closed his eyes against the pain, but his desire to wallow was only short lived. _Renault_.

Richie crawled out of bed and showered. He made coffee and went downstairs to the dojo office. A quick check of his email and he found the files that Pete had emailed him. Giving himself a mental note to find a way to repay his roommate, Richie printed the files.

By one, he was done studying them. _The guy is a cheater_. Richie went over in his mind the various ways a person can cheat and found that Renault favored using guns and modified tasers. _That must be how he beat Mac…_ Richie suddenly remembered Duncan telling him the story of how the watchers killed Darius. _I need some non-conductive clothing_.

At one-thirty Richie had returned from the hardware store. He bought some miracle product that, once applied like shellac, prevented electricity from penetrating to a conductive material. Unfortunately it would dull and probably weaken the blade, so instead he treated the hilt. _If I can get the stream onto my sword I can beat him_, Richie thought, momentarily remembering certain scenes from Star Wars.

His sword was finished at two-thirty. Richie then decided that if he was going to defeat Renault he would need something in his stomach. Perusing Mac's cupboard and freezer, Richie found the ingredients to make cheeseburgers. _A fitting last meal for Richie Ryan_, he thought fondly as he flipped the patties, remembering how often Tessa had chided him about his eating habits.

By three Richie had eaten. Now it was time to prepare himself mentally. He meditated the way Mac taught him for a half an hour to clear his mind. He only had one objective: kill Renault. Everything else melted away, nothing extraneous would distract him from his goal. There was an eerie calm to it all: preparing to avenge his teacher, father, best friend, or whatever descriptions came to mind. Killing Renault. Just a goal. Something to strive for. Something that required all of his energies and attention.

After meditating, Richie went downstairs to the dojo and went through some weaponless katas. His motion grew more fluid with each repetition, his body moving of its own accord as his mind was free to roam elsewhere. He thought of Mac and Tessa, how much they had both meant to him, and how they were now both gone. He remembered having the opportunity to avenge Tessa, but decided not to leave a fatherless child behind. Tessa wouldn't have wanted that. Besides, once he made the punk realize that he had killed her, living with that knowledge was sufficient enough.

This time was different. This time it was part of the gathering. This time avenging Mac was perfectly legal and acceptable. This time there were no alternatives, no causes for mercy. _This time Renault will die!_

Richie felt the anger rise, but he was ready for it. He forced it down into his limbs, keeping his mind focused on his fonder memories of Duncan and Tessa. The anger never reached his head and was unable to cloud his thinking. Idly he realized that this was a skill it took centuries for some immortals to learn, whereas he was lucky enough to inherit it through a quickening. One of the only decent things the transfer of knowledge and power had actually brought him.

Some time after five Richie decided it was time to go. He changed into a pair of black jeans and a long sleeve black tee. He wore his fencing cup for protection against an ill-placed blow and regretted that Kevlar would restrict his movements too much. He grabbed his jacket and fitted his sword into it. He left the papers on the counter and grabbed his bike helmet.

Only one thing remained. Richie went back into the bedroom and grabbed Mac's address book. He sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the phone, dreading making this phone call perhaps more than the actual fight itself. He dialed Connor's personal number and was grateful when the voicemail picked up.

_This is Russell Nash. I'm out of town on Business. Leave a message._  
Beep.

"Connor…" Richie began. He took a deep breath and continued: "I don't know how to say this so I'll just say it. Mac's…" Richie hated the sound of his own voice. Mac was a term of endearment, a nickname. Duncan MacLeod was more than that. He was a real person. A real person who meant the world to many people. And now he was gone. "Duncan's—" for some reason saying his teacher's real name, which Richie very rarely used, was even harder. "Dead." There. He said it.

Richie took a few more calming breaths, then: "I've worked out who… The bastard's tryin' to leave town. I'm gonna try and catch him at the airport…" Richie had to struggle to keep his voice from breaking. Saying it gave the information the last touch of finality that he could not escape. "I've left my key under the front doormat. At the dojo. All the information is upstairs on the counter…" Richie wanted to say _in case I don't make it you have to finish it_, but he could accept the possibility that he would fail. He wouldn't fail Mac, not now.

"I don't know when you'll get this message. Hopefully you check you messages often in case—" Richie bit his lip in he struggle to maintain his composure. He could taste the coppery droplets of blood as his lip instantly healed. "This son of a bitch is mine." Richie gave voice to the anger, but it sounded hollow to him. "I'm sorry," he finished, knowing that Connor wouldn't take this well at all. Then he hung up the phone on what was one of the hardest things he has ever done in his brief life, and grabbed his jacket and helmet.

It was time to kill that son of a bitch.

Richie made it to the airport in record time. He knew which flights were leaving for Portland and made his way through those terminals hoping to feel the presence of an immortal.

He wasn't disappointed.

Renault was sitting in terminal C, casually reading a newspaper. He looked up upon feeling Richie's presence and Richie made a beeline straight for him.

"Can I help you?" The man asked innocently.

"Jean-Pierre Renault," Richie said with perfect French inflection.

"And who the hell are you?" he asked impatiently.

Richie's voice was like ice. "A challenger."

"Well you've caught me at a bad time. You see, I've already checked my bag and—"

"Bullshit." Richie cut him off. "You're too old to not know how to carry your sword on a plane." He kept his voice low to avoid attracting attention, and it lent a menacing quality to his speech.

Renault regarded Richie sternly for a moment. "Leave now if you want to live," he said, just as menacingly. "Right now I'm after bigger fish than you."

Richie laughed a hollow, sneering laugh. "You can always catch the next flight."

"You've made a big mistake boy," Renault declared, rising from his chair. "You shan't live to regret it."

"You made the mistake," Richie nearly spat the words, "when you went after my teacher."

Renault grabbed his carry-on bag. "Where?" he asked.

"Parking garage. West Gate. It's closed for construction."

"I know it."

Richie and Renault walked through the airport in silence. When they arrived at the parking garage Richie removed his sword from his jacket, discarding the jacket on the ground. Renault also discarded his jacket after having removed his sword. They moved slightly away from the entrance.

"Care to tell me your name?" Renault asked casually.

"Richard MacLeod," Richie supplied, surprising himself as the name rolled easily off his tongue.

"Another MacLeod eh? Well I'll be damned."

_He's got a French bastard sword, hand and a half. I don't think its balance is correct. He's confident._ Richie went through a mental checklist as they circled each other. Then he was Richie who attacked first. It was a cautious strike, a few blows easily parried.

"Is that all you've got?" Renault taunted.

"Wouldn't you like to know," Richie came right back. He attacked again, this time with increased speed and intensity, striking at different places then before. Again Renault easily parried them.

"I think I'm getting bored," Renault declared.

Richie just laughed coldly. _He has a solid defense, but won't attack and defend at the same time. If I can get him to go on the offensive…_

His thoughts were interrupted when Renault took out what Richie momentarily thought resembled a cell phone. The small electronic device then shot a dart at him and Richie realized too late that it was connected to a taser wire. Renault depressed the button and Richie's knees buckled as the electricity assaulted his body. He just barely kept a hand on his sword.

"Didn't I tell you that you'd live longer if you'd have minded your own business?" Renault asked as he shocked Richie again. Richie cried out in pain as Renault upped the power to overzealous cattle prod he was holding.

_Get your sword up Ryan!_

Richie didn't know where the voice came from, but he quickly did as he was told. He swung his sword up, but rather than severing the wire his blade merely ground against it. Renault upped the voltage again and Richie saw white spots dancing before his eyes even as some secluded part of his brain informed him that the 'taser modifications' the watchers recorded meant that the wire was made of something difficult to cut through when you've got untold amps coursing through your body.

That's when Richie remembered his hilt. If he could direct the current to his sword instead of his body he stood a chance of disarming Renault. Unfortunately the taser dart—the other modification, he belatedly realized, was short and barbed like a crossbow bolt. Removing it would be immensely painful—provided he could wrap his hand around it long enough to pull it out.

_Your sword, Ryan!_

Again the voice, calling out from somewhere and penetrating the haze of pain that was his world right now, and suddenly Richie knew what to do. Summoning the rest of his strength and swung his sword again. Only this time, as the blade slid against the wire, he dropped the tip down and allowed the wire to encircle the blade. There was enough give in the wire afterwards for one more pass, and again that secluded part of his mind noted the fact that his hands weren't being shocked by gripping his sword hilt.

"Not this time!" Richie ground out through grit teeth, barely audibly, as he tightened his grip on his sword and yanked upwards. With a sickening squish-like noise that resounded loudly (if imaginary) inside his brain, the taser dart tore its way back out of Richie's flesh, and suddenly the pain stopped. The taser dart now dangled at the end of the wire, dancing as if alive from the electricity. The barbed tip was coated with blood and began smoking as the current fried the dying cells.

The fire in Richie's body faded into the background as his quickening surged forward to combat the damage the taser current had wrought. Richie climbed unsteadily to his feet and saw Renault's eyes go wide while the electricity danced along his blade, unable to penetrate the protective coating on the hilt, unable to ground to his body.

Another slash of his sword, this time downwards, and the taser flew out of Renault's hand. Like a living whip of electicity the taser flew overhead, and Richie allowed the wire to fly off his sword. It sailed into the garage wall, sparking as it went. The tail of it caught one of the fluorescent lights hanging overhead and it shorted out, showering sparks of it's own in a rain of amber fire.

Now Richie and Renault stood ten feet apart, Richie with his sword clutched in two eager hands and Renault, his sword apparently forgotten in his left hand, stared at him with a mixture of surprise, respect, and rage.

"That's a neat trick," he said with a shake of his head.

"You'll find I'm full of surprises," Richie spat back through clenched teeth.

"Clichéd," Renault chided.

"Sue me."

Renault sneered as Richie moved to close the gap between them, but unfortunately Richie didn't get far. Renault pulled a .22 out of a holster on his ankle and shot Richie at he approached. The first shot missed, but before Richie had the chance to wonder how Renault was planning on slipping the gun through customs the second shot struck home. Richie was hit… squarely in the Fencing cup. The pain was excruciating even though the small-caliber bullet was deflected. A third shot followed and gouged across Richie's left thigh as he twisted around from the impact of the shot before it.

Now Richie lay curled into the fetal position, watching Renault close the remainder of the gap between them. _Pretend your dead, catch him off guard and get the gun away from him_.

The gamble worked. Richie heard the telltale _there can be only one_ as he saw Renault raise his sword while still keeping the gun pointed at him. Richie took advantage of Renault's sword being held out over his head and he sprang into action. He struck swiftly, slicing his blade upwards, and connected steel to gunmetal. The .22 went flying across the garage, and now Renault was staring at Richie, on his feet and seemingly uninjured, armed with only his sword.

Renault cursed him and Richie then surmised that had been called the two-faced son of a whore, but the French Renault used was archaic.

"Are you through cheating?" Richie asked, sounding tired and annoyed.

"To each their own," Renault said with flourish.

The combatants then began circling each other, which was a blessing for Richie. It gave him, the chance to continue to heal from the gunshot wounds. To this end he was determined to wait for Renault to make the first move. Eventually Renault caught onto the idea that Richie was waiting because he was still healing and immediately attacked. Richie blocked the first blows easily, and then jumped back onto the offensive again. Renault quickly went back on the defensive, and didn't try to attack again.

_He's overly defensive. He won't attack unless he perceives obvious weakness. He's too rigid. If I can get him to attack I might be able to get him off balance._

Richie and Renault circled again, and then Richie launched into his largest offensive yet. Renault blocked easily, speed and stamina not lost on him. Richie surmised that he was more than used to this, and the only advantage to continuing his assault would be to tire him out.

"What's the matter?" Richie taunted. "Afraid to attack me without your toys?"

Renault's face hardened, but he said nothing, and then Richie attacked again. This pattern was maintained for many minutes: circling, Richie attacking, Renault blocking, Richie withdrawing, them circling again. Unfortunately he knew that if this kept up that he would tire long before Renault. _I need to get him to attack me!_

Even more minutes passed with the strategies unchanging. Richie was beginning to tire physically, but mentally he wouldn't allow himself to give in. He finally decided that he would have to goad Renault into attacking by being… well, himself.

"What's the matter Renault? Afraid to attack me?"

"I rather enjoy watching you do all the work," said Renault with a sly smile.

"Just keep telling yourself that, coward," Richie spat the last word and went into a quick offensive. _Bingo!_ He scored a small slash in Renault's left arm, the first legal hit either had allowed. Richie had guessed correctly that Renault's most vulnerable spot was in the ego.

"You'll pay for that remark," Renault hissed, obviously angrier at having been insulted than to be bleeding.

"How's that," Richie asked in the tone he remembered using on cops and foster fathers. "When you can't even seem to attack me?"

Renault's face contorted into a hideous grin as he stepped into an attack. It was a quick three parries that Richie easily blocked and then Renault retreated and they went back to circling.

Richie made a show of stifling a yawn. "I'm sorry, did you say something?"

Renault hurled another insult, this time one that Richie didn't recognize, as he launched another attack. This one was five easily blocked parries and once again Renault retreated out of sword's reach and they began circling again.

"You know, you're like the fat kid on the playground trying to outwit the bully," Richie taunted, a malicious grin growing on his features that made him look rather psychotic. "I'll bet you _were_ that fat kid, the one mommy and daddy would buy the best swords for even though their chicken-shit of a son would wet himself if he had to use one." Renault looked almost too angry to form words. Richie was on a roll. "I'll bet you pissed your tights all the time, especially when the little girls would flirt with you… Or perhaps it was the little boys?"

That did it. Renault let loose a primordial scream and launched into his most aggressive offensive yet.

The battle had finally begun in earnest. They were both offensive and defensive, trading roles almost every other blow. Renault was physically stronger than Richie and so was able to gain ground against him, but Richie was faster and was able to constantly knock Renault off balance, which allowed him to recover his defenses before attacking again and gaining that ground back. This cycle continued for several more minutes.

Richie and Renault were playing at the top of their game. It was obvious that this fight would go to the first to make a fatigue-related mistake, and Richie refused to be the one to cave.

Finally Renault came in on Richie's off side, but the throw was sloppy and off balance. Richie blocked it and shoved upwards, sending Renault staggering. With his sword out of the way, Richie landed a clean slice down across Renault's chest. In the instant the pain flared Renault made the mistake of grabbing at the wound with his weak hand. The bastard sword, raised awkwardly above his head, then proved too heavy for him. It slipped through his grasp and hit the pavement with a sickening clang. Renault was now unarmed.

Richie immediately capitalized on Renault's misfortune. He sliced Renault deep across the stomach, bringing the immortal to his knees as both hands went to keep his insides from spilling out. Renault was dying, leaning forward on his knees.

"For Mac," Richie vowed as he delivered the killing blow.

Renault's head departed his shoulders and dropped to the ground with a hollow thud. It rolled a few feet away, the eyes staring at the ceiling non-seeing. Richie nodded to himself that the deed was done as he waited for the quickening to overtake him.

He didn't have to wait long. The mist soon rose out of Renault's dead body, hovering just slightly in the air like a supernatural fog for a few moments before moving to encircle Richie. Richie shut his eyes, knowing what was to come.

The fog quickly turned violent, sparks of malevolent lighting arching up and down across Richie's body, striking him at odd intervals with the strength and determination of possessed cobras. The pain was intense, the electrical charge over-stimulating his nervous system, pushing and pulling his body this way and that as though he were a marionette on a string. Richie hadn't yet learned not to scream.

The torture continued, distorting all sense of time and place, pain causing an out-of-body experience while the essence and memories of Renault—and every other immortal whose quickening resided within him, forced their imprints on Richie's thoughts and vision. Who was Richie Ryan? Where was he? He had never been to the places his mind was taking him to. He didn't know these people he was seeing with his mind's eye. Richie Ryan's soul just invited over three hundred new residents to spend eternity inside his head.

Not that he had much choice. The essence of who he was has just become that much more tainted, other personalities irrevocably staining his own without neither thought nor consideration. It was unwanted. It was torture. It was the immortal version of rape.

When it was finally over, Richie found himself half standing and quickly fell to his knees, bracing himself with his hands. His eyes were his own again, as were his synapses and muscle responses.

Well, almost all of them.

Whatever was left of the cheeseburgers emptied themselves onto the pavement. When he was done he shoved away from that spot, rolling onto his back a few feet away. The pavement felt soothing, the cold cutting through his sweat and turning his skin clammy. He felt the headache coming that protests sudden temperature changes and dehydration. He felt his wounds try and complete the healing process and couldn't be bothered with the mild itching sensation they caused. He felt an anger rise inside him, a cold hatred that was unfeeling only because the emotions bled together into one, but he couldn't tell if it was directed _at _Renault or if it was simply Renault making his presence known.

And it didn't matter.

Richie eventually forced himself into a sitting position, resting back on his hands. He saw Renault's headless body and his own blood and vomit stains and barely suppressed the urge to be sick again. He shoved himself to his feet, not trusting them at first to hold his weight. Once he was certain of his balance he went to pick up his sword. That's when he finally noticed that there was more staining his pants then blood and sweat.

"Not since Mako…" Richie mused with sad humor as he grabbed Renault's sword too. He shoved them both in his jacket, not caring about the bloodstains or that he ripped the hidden pocket with the added weight. His thoughts as he left the garage were of the fact that the less you wanted a quickening the more it hurt you. This one put Duncan inside his head. Now there was no denial. Richie believed that was only a matter of time before he saw flashes of himself through his teacher's eyes. He didn't want to be privy to all of Duncan's thoughts and emotions. Then the rape would complete.

Richie made his way around the outside airport without being seen closely enough for anyone to scrutinize his appearance. He found his bike right where he left it and took off for the dojo. He briefly contemplated heading to the island, but he knew that all too soon Connor would arrive and would need to know what happened. Richie was sure it was Duncan's voice telling him that.

Once back at apartment Richie discarded his jacket and removed the swords from the torn pocket. Both were stained, but Richie's was by far the worst. _This is the sword that killed Mac…_He mused as he stared at Renault's bastard sword._ I wish I could find the katana._

Richie left the swords on the counter and went to the fridge. His body was craving water but his mind decided on alcohol. Alas he discovered that he finished the last of the beer the night before. Undaunted, he moved to the liquor cabinet.

The small fifths bottles were tempting. Most were different incarnations of alcohol and at least thirty years old. _Mac collected those. He probably wasn't going to drink them_.

Richie settled on the bottle of brandy Connor had given Duncan last year. He went back to the couch and collapsed onto it. That's when he noticed the bottle was corked. Richie cursed loudly in disgust and grabbed the bottle by the neck and smashed it on the edge of the coffee table. When the sudden rage passed Richie looked down at the puddle of brandy and glass shards on the floor and grimaced. Now down one very good source of intoxication, Richie cursed again and stood up.

His next choice from the liquor cabinet was an antique bottle of rum. Richie liberated the bottle and unscrewed the cap, taking a generous swig on his first mouthful and gasping horribly when the taste caught up with him. _No wonder he hasn't touched this stuff yet!_

Richie took the bottle and headed into the bedroom. It was his hope to avoid the images that would haunt his dreams while he was still under the influences of the quickening. He did _not_ want to feel Duncan's memories of Tessa. He did _not_ want to know anything about his teacher, best friend, and surrogate father that only possessing his quickening could teach.

Unfortunately Richie awoke from a nightmare not long after having finally succumbed to sleep. The images retreated back into the ether as soon as he opened his eyes, but the sensations remained: anger, fear, and loss. Richie felt them in the pit of his stomach and knew they were foreign. His body was aching for a way to actively release the tension, but Richie would be damned if he would be active right now. All he wanted was for the intruding feelings to depart—it was bad enough that he would soon be forced to deal with his own. _But not now!_

Richie finished the bottle of rum in one gulp, hoping the presence of bad tasting but extremely potent alcohol would wrench the invading sensations from his body, but no such luck. Richie hurled the bottle across the room and saw it connect with the full mirror on the back of the door. Richie winced. _That was Tessa's_.

The breaking of the mirror pushed Richie over the edge. _It was Tessa's and she's gone. The rum was Mac's and now he's gone too. They're all gone!_ Angrily Richie struck out at nightstand next to him, sending the clock radio and lamp crashing to the floor. Not satisfied, Richie swung over to the other side of the bed and did likewise to the other nightstand, sending the lamp, telephone, and the assortment of empty beer bottles flying. They were meaningless. Nothing in the room mattered. The people were gone. Things can be replaced, but not people. What would it matter tomorrow since Mac wouldn't be there to scold him and force him to clean it up?

_I can do this and he won't care because he's gone and never coming back!_

Richie's thoughts tormented him as he continued to trash the bedroom, punching walls and picture frames. He only stopped when he came to Duncan's dresser, the Celtic knots staring at him from each door like a reminder of Tessa's watchful eyes. _This was Tessa's too…_ He remembered when she carved it, a gift for his four hundredth birthday. _Four years ago_.

Richie felt his eyes sting with unshed tears, his body too dehydrated to truly form them. He resolved to end the torment somehow, and the only way that came to mind was death. With purpose he strode back into the living room to the liquor cabinet. He took each of the six alcohol nips and fifths and downed them without pausing to taste them or even to read the labels. When he finished one he would move on to another, throwing the previous bottle against the far wall and not registering the jarring sound as that of shattering glass.

Those bottles broken, empty, and strewn about, Richie felt quite like would pass out. However, simply passing out was not an option. The dreams would still get him, and he still had a great chance of his body rejecting the alcohol before his immortal liver could process it, and sick-drunk was something Richie had managed to avoid ever since moving into the antique store. He wasn't about to break that record in Mac's presence, even if that presence was only a stern warning in the form of the fierce pounding inside his skull.

A moment of lucid thought and Richie remembered where Duncan kept the sleeping pills. He stumbled to the kitchen counter and took the earthenware jar from next to the coffee maker. Inside was an assortment of herbal teas and at the bottom sat the bottle of pills. They were prescription, probably from Anne, and Duncan used them whenever he (or someone else) needed a good rest and he was out of Darius's special recipe tea.

Richie was debating what to take the pills with when he saw the swords on the counter. He picked up Renault's bastard sword and debated just stabbing himself to death, but decided that he didn't want to burden Connor with finding him like that. _This sword killed Mac!_ Richie was suddenly repulsed, seeing his blood on the sword and immediately thinking of Duncan. He hurled it out of the kitchen and into the living room. It slid unceremoniously under the couch with a loud thud-clang-scrape and rested out of sight.

Richie then set his eyes on his own sword, another hand-and-a-half weapon. It had considerably more blood on it than Renault's did. Richie momentarily contemplated, in the way very drunk and overtired people tend to contemplate things, how most of the immortals he knew carried hand-and-a-half weapons. It gave more power and greater control than a one-handed weapon, provided you didn't mind sacrificing a bit of speed and agility. It also gave you greater freedom of movement than a two-handed great sword, an option that he hadn't seen any immortals use to date. Riche held his sword in his hand briefly, knowing he could swing it one handed if he chose, and decided that hand-and-a-half swords were definitely the way to go.

Richie held the sword and stared at the blade, seeing it stained with Renault's blood. _The blood of a cheater,_ he thought angrily. _He cheated Mac out of his life, and now they're both in my head. _

Richie dropped the sword and grabbed his temples, unsure if it was the alcohol, dehydration, or presence of another hive of immortal consciousnesses that had wrapped itself around his gray matter entreating entry. The momentary pain passed, replaced by unfocused rage. Richie picked up his sword and hurled it into the wall. It was a testimony to the quality of the blade more so than the force of Richie's adrenaline-charged muscles that drove the blade nearly halfway into the drywall. It covered the bloodstains at least. The handle drooped slightly from its weight but Richie didn't notice. He had already picked up the sleeping pills and headed to the living room and the liquor cabinet.

Once there, Richie grabbed the only bottle of alcohol Duncan had left: his twenty-eight year old scotch. _He only drank this during special occasions… Or after really bad ones._ Richie took the scotch and the pills back into the bedroom. After a few unsuccessful attempts at opening the child-proof cap Richie gained access to the medication. He emptied the entire bottle into his mouth and swallowed it with quite a few quick gulps of the scotch, nearly retching again when he discovered that it tasted worse than the rum, if that were possible. His last thoughts before passing out on the bed were of wondering if Duncan's quickening would impart the ability to drink the vile liquid. He fell asleep from sheer exhaustion and was undisturbed by dreams until the alcohol and pills conspired to kill him painlessly in his sleep.


	4. Aftermath

**Monday**

They found Richie in the bedroom. He was lying on his back on the bed, his arms and legs completely outstretched. His clothes were torn and bloody and the blood had seeped had onto the sheets surrounding his torso and spread out in a dark stain that was concentrated around the small of his back. The blankets were kicked off and hung on the edge of the bed beneath Richie's feet. He still had his shoes on. His eyes were closed, but the expression on his face was unreadable, hovering somewhere between peaceful and pained. An empty prescription bottle was curled into his left hand, which hung off the bed from the wrist down, and Duncan's best scotch was sitting open on the nightstand, three-quarters empty.

"He's dead," said Joe, who was sitting on the other side of the bed still holding Richie's hand in his from when he had checked for a pulse.

"That's why we didn't feel him," said Connor.

"Judging from his clothes I'd say that he just barely won," Joe appraised, looking up at the two immortals hovering in the doorway. Connor then entered the room and bent down to pry the prescription bottle from Richie's hand.

"Wounds?" Duncan asked. His voice was barely above a whisper. He still hadn't moved from the doorway.

"Many," Joe informed him, finally putting down Richie's hand, almost reverently. "But all in various stages of healing." Duncan silently thanked God for that.

"Sleeping pills?" Connor questioned, showing the empty orange bottle to Duncan, who took it and absently read the label.

"I would crush them into tea," Duncan absently explained, still examining the bottle as if it were a rare specimen, "when I found myself out of Darius's blend."

"I'd say he chased them down with your good scotch, my friend," said Joe, pushing himself to standing and then facing the two immortals across the bed.

"The pills were small. I still had thirteen left," said Duncan, staring at Richie's lifeless form.

"How long would he be dead for?" Joe asked.

"Depends on when he took them," said Duncan.

"And how injured he was at the time," added Connor.

There was a momentary pause as the three simply regarded Richie lying dead on Duncan's bed with a mixture of relief and wonder. Then Duncan walked slowly to his bedside and knelt down. He made motion to brush his hair out of his face, idly thinking that Richie's shorter haircut, now growing out, didn't really suit him even though it served to make him look older, when his hand came away bloody. Duncan then said something that loosely translates to _my poor little one_ in Gaelic as he stared at the blood on his hand.

"I'm gonna make that call now. It would be good to be sure that Renault is really dead." Joe spoke softly, announcing his intentions to no one in particular, as he couldn't bring himself to interrupt Duncan.

Yet Duncan didn't seem to hear him. He was too preoccupied with the rush of meanings and emotions for the symbol of Richie's blood on his hand. Connor silently left the room, feeling like an intruder on a private family moment.

When Duncan left the bedroom he found Connor at the counter again, gathering up the papers on Renault.

"Joe's getting reamed for placing a call at this hour," he told Connor, trying to make his voice sound light.

"Decided to give him privacy?" Connor asked, regarding Duncan critically.

"Yeah," Duncan admitted, but his smile a little too forced and didn't reach his eyes.

"You couldn't bear to see him like that," Connor concluded with finality.

Duncan didn't contest the point, but rather shut his eyes and exhaled deeply, grabbing hold of the edge of the countertop in a reverse grip to steady himself. Connor allowed him the moment.

"Is this what you felt?" Duncan asked at last, in Gaelic, without looking at his teacher.

"Not exactly," Connor replied, not unkindly, again in Gaelic. This time Duncan looked at him.

"I _knew_ you were dead," Connor clarified softly and with no emotion in his voice. There was no need.

Duncan inhaled sharply and shut his eyes again, his fatigue from the weekend's ordeal making it difficult for him to keep his emotions in check. There was guilt over Connor, worry for Richie replaced quickly by relief, anger at both Renault and the misunderstanding that caused this mess, and even more guilt over the way Richie had handled the situation.

Connor walked around the counter and stood close behind Duncan protectively, but not actually touching him. "Do you remember how you reacted, when you learned that Canwulf had killed your father?" he questioned softly in Duncan's ear.

"I channeled it all into the fight," Duncan admitted, not turning around.

"Because you already knew who to blame," Connor informed him. "Richie had to figure that part out on his own."

"How'd he figure it out?" Duncan wondered aloud.

"Would anything have stopped you from knowing the identity of your father's killer?"

"No," breathed Duncan. He hung his head and Connor put a hand on his shoulder. Neither said anything about the parallels Connor had just drawn between Canwulf the Viking and Jean-Pierre Renault.

"I'm sorry," Duncan said at last.

"It's not your fault," Connor assured him. "I punched you, so we're even."

Duncan laughed at that, but it came out more like a choked sob. He turned around to face his teacher, one hand drifting to the upper arm of the hand Connor still had resting on his shoulder. Then they both slid their arms back, their hands finding forearms in a firm warrior's handshake. They pulled each other mutually into another embrace, this one brief and manly, held at a slight angle and done after a few pats on the back.

"Richie took Renault's head in the airport parking garage at nine p.m. Sunday night," Joe informed the two immortals once they had separated. He had witnessed three quarters of the scene that had just ended, but didn't feel like he was intruding because their conversation was in Gaelic, which he promised himself he would have Duncan teach him at some point. Instead he just waited patiently for the moment to end before delivering the good news.

"At least that's something," Connor declared.

"Renault's eleven hundred years old…" Duncan left his other thoughts unsaid.

"But Richie was the more motivated," Connor reminded him.

"So what do we do now?" Joe asked.

"What can we do?" Duncan returned. "Except wait for Richie to revive."

"Well, we can clean this place up a bit," said Connor, looking around at the remains of the kitchen.

"What about the bedroom?" Joe asked.

"I'll take care of it," Duncan declared in a tone that brokered no argument.

* * *

Duncan wanted to postpone touching Richie or the bed until the last possible moment. First he put the cap back on the Scotch and carried it out to the kitchen. When he returned to the bedroom he had a handful of wet paper towels, some cleaning solution, and a trash bag.

He saw that Joe had replaced the phone and decided to focus first on the nightstands. He picked up the lamps that had been knocked to the ground. One was totaled so Duncan put it in the trash bag. The other was potentially salvageable so he put it outside the bedroom door. The clock radio was on the floor but still appeared to be in working order except for the fact that the batteries had fallen out and the battery case door was missing. Duncan plugged the clock in and saw it immediately flash to twelve a.m. He made a mental note to search for the batteries and case door as he set the clock by his watch: three twenty-five a.m. Once Duncan made sure that the radio and alarm still worked he put it down next to the nightstand to begin cleaning it.

First he wiped down the nightstand, having to scrub hard in places to get the dried blood and scotch out of the antique woodwork. Satisfied with his work he placed the working clock back on the now-clean nightstand next to the phone. Then he checked the drawers to make sure everything was still there before moving on to the nightstand on the other side of the bed. There were a few beer bottles lying against the wall, dried streaks of beer adorning the top of the nightstand. Richie must have shoved all the bottles off in anger at one point. These he put in the trash bag before wiping down the nightstand and checking the drawer to be sure all its contents were still there.

Duncan saw that his wardrobe had escaped relatively unscathed, though he briefly wondered why as he ran his hands along it inspecting it for damage or stains. Then it hit him: Tessa had given it to him as a birthday present, and Richie had been with them. Although she was primarily a metal sculptor, she had done fine work carving the Celtic knots into its curved wooden doors. Duncan shut his eyes against the memory.

When he turned away he noticed a bottle behind the door. It was antique rum, a gift from Robert and Gina de Valicourt. The bottle didn't break so Duncan set it outside with lamp. He would wash it later and ship it to Paris to add to his collection. The full-length mirror on the back of the door that the bottle had hit didn't fare so lucky. The glass had shattered into spider webs but had not actually fallen off the frame. Resigned, Duncan simply shut the door, telling himself he'd carry it out to the dumpster later.

Once Duncan had straightened all the pictures and made sure any blood and alcohol had been cleaned off the walls there was nothing left to do but tend to Richie. He pulled the top sheet, blanket, and comforter out from underneath Richie's feet. The sheet he set aside to cover Richie with later, knowing that access to open air is best for the immortal healing process but not wanting Richie to be cold. _Like you can be cold when you're dead_ he admonished himself as he balled the blanket and comforter up and placed them with the lamp and empty bottle. He would wash them later.

Duncan realized he needed more paper towels if he was going to clean Richie's body so he headed back into the kitchen carrying the lamp and the empty bottle of rum. Connor and Joe were standing at the counter looking at something on a laptop computer. Duncan put the lamp and the bottle on the counter where Joe and Connor had already started a pile of objects and gadgets that could be fixed or needed to be put away.

"Figured out how the kid got the information," Connor informed him without looking up from the screen. He was manning the keys while Joe stood watching over his shoulder. Upon closer inspection Duncan recognized the laptop as belonging to Joe.

"The watchers?" he Duncan, coming to stand behind Connor's other shoulder.

"He hacked the online database," said Joe, trying to decide if he was impressed by Richie or angry at the network's so-called security.

"I thought you said that thing was locked up tighter than Langley?" Duncan asked, obviously impressed himself.

"It was supposed to be," Joe defended. There was a pause as both men watched Connor deftly tapping the keys.

"Joe, how did Richie get a hold of your laptop?" Duncan finally asked.

"It was on the desk in my office at home," said Joe. "He must have broken into my place, but I don't get it. We don't keep anything on our home computers for this exact reason. That's why we created the online database in the first place."

"But your computer logged the server address," Connor pointed out. "He used that to find your network."

Joe frowned. "I thought I disabled that feature."

"You did," Connor said weightily, and silence followed. Then finally Connor finished. "Well the kid hacked into the system then guessed your passwords to give him root access," he informed them as he pulled up the files on Renault that matched the printouts lying on the other end of the counter.

Joe shook his head. "I'll be damned."

"He must have emailed the relevant files to himself then printed them out from your machine, kinsman," Connor continued, exiting the programs and shutting down the machine.

"But why would he do that?" Joe asked.

"He wanted to make sure I knew who'd killed Duncan, in case…" Connor's tone was grave, and he couldn't bring himself to finish that statement with Duncan standing right next to him.

"I need paper towels," Duncan announced mostly to himself after a brief pause. He grabbed another handful and wet them in the kitchen sink before returning to the bedroom.

Once he was gone Connor closed the laptop and unplugged it from the cable modem.

"Mac only recently went to high speed," Joe said absently.

"Does Duncan have a mop?" Connor asked, unsuccessfully trying to not sound as tired as he really was.

"Hall closet," said Joe. "I'll get it."

"No, I'll get it. Why don't you start on the living room?" Connor suggested, aware of how long Joe must have been on his feet—or rather, on his prostheses, and Joe was secretly grateful.

"How long has it been since you've slept?" he asked the immortal.

Connor tilted his head in thought. "I woke up at nine a.m. Sunday morning in New Delhi, or seven p.m. Saturday your time. That's when I got a message from Rachel that Richie had called looking for Duncan. It's nearly four a.m. on Monday, so that's… nearly thirty two-hours." Connor shook his head slightly in amazement at the time. Then: "What about you?"

"I dozed a little in the car, but I've been up since ten a.m. Sunday. That's sixteen hours. You win." They both laughed slightly at this.

"I tried to sleep a little on the plane," Connor admitted, "but…"

Joe didn't need Connor to finish his statement and nodded in appreciation.

"It's just occurred to me that we've never been properly introduced," he said suddenly, extending his hand. "Joe Dawson."

"Duncan's watcher," said Connor, nodding. "I figured as much." He took Joe's hand in a warrior's handshake. Only later, after Joe had slept, ate, and thought about it, did he get the meaning behind the seemingly odd gesture. He would feel as honored as he did the day Duncan invited him for a drink the day he declared their friendship, or the day when Methos told him that he trusted him to keep his identity a secret.

"I wonder if mine's caught up to me yet," Conner added after ending the handshake.

"What do you mean?" Joe asked.

"Well after I received Richie's message I had to charter a private jet out of New Delhi to Hong Kong, as that was the fastest way I'd get on a flight to Seattle. In Seattle I had to rent a car since commuter flights to Seacouver don't start until about five a.m."

"Wow…" Joe breathed.

Connor just shrugged and smiled a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "It was the fastest way," he admitted plainly.

In that moment Joe saw in Connor a protectiveness of Duncan that rivaled Duncan's feelings for Richie. Granted Duncan was older and more capable of handling himself than Richie generally was, so Connor didn't have to hover as closely as Duncan perceived he needed to with Richie, but the sentiment was still there. Joe had seen Duncan worry about Richie before tonight, but what would it do to him to know that Richie was dead? Joe imagined even more clearly how torturous the plane rides had to have been on Connor, and then saw their reunion tonight through wiser eyes. _No wonder Connor hit him_, he thought with a smile.

* * *

Back in the bedroom, Duncan had stripped off Richie's boots and socks. The boots he trashed, being too stained with blood to be salvageable. The socks met the same fate. Duncan then walked over to the side of the bed and sat down next to Richie.

"What amma gunna do with ye, laddie?" Duncan asked as he looked upon the dead form of his student, fatigue and emotion making his brogue more pronounced. He took a damp paper towel and gingerly washed Richie's face, neck, and hair. There were no wounds visible on those areas and very little blood, so Duncan surmised that his earlier encounter must have been caused by splatter from the fight.

Duncan debated briefly about stripping Richie's clothes off, but then decided that his shirt had to go. It barely clung to him, having numerous slices on the front and sides. Duncan grabbed his pocketknife and cut the shirt away, removing it without disturbing Richie's still-dead body. Richie's torso and arms were smeared with blood, streaked in places by sweat. He had faint scars all over him as well, their healing process impeded by the amount of drugs and alcohol in his system, but they were healing nonetheless. Duncan just sighed and shook his head as he did his best to clear the mess off of his student. It took a bit of time and nearly all his paper towels, but eventually Duncan was satisfied with his job.

He then turned his attentions to Richie's jeans. They were black and had a giant slice through the left thigh that had blood dried and crusted for inches around. There was also a smaller cut on his right shin: a glancing swipe that barely bled. Duncan decided to remove the jeans when he remembered that Richie habitually wore boxers. He removed Richie's belt and laughed slightly when he saw that it had miraculously been spared a great dosing of blood. Upon closer inspection Duncan recognized it as the belt he had bought Richie to match the first suit Tessa had bought him. It was a fancier belt and thus Duncan had hardly seen him wear it. Indeed, he had practically forgotten that he had given it to him. Duncan fought the sting in his eyes as he set the belt aside and proceeded to remove Richie's pants.

Duncan wasn't surprised to find that the blood from the thigh wound had dribbled all down his leg and absently remembered Richie's socks being considerably bloodstained. What did surprise him was the cracked athletic cup Richie wore. Duncan shook his head in amazement and wondered if he'd learned that trick from Methos. The crack down the center attested to its practicality. It hammered home that Richie was the one headhunting last night and that he had taken every conceivable precaution. Failure had not been an option.

Duncan used the pocketknife to cut off the cup and he put it with the belt. He then used the remainder of the paper towels to scrub Richie's legs clean of blood. Richie's boxers were also rather stained, but Duncan decided, after considerable debate, to leave them on. Richie had been through enough trauma this weekend, having him wake up naked wasn't one he wanted to add to 'I'm alive and uncle Connor's asleep on the couch.' He gently lighted the top sheet over Richie, kissed his forehead, and stood back to marvel at how the lad was still alive (relatively speaking), and what he must have gone through.

Satisfied that there was nothing more he could do for Richie, Duncan put the torn and bloody clothes in the trash bag and sealed it. He then carried it out to the kitchen along with the bedding for the wash. He put the trash bag in the kitchen with the others that Connor and Joe had managed to fill and carried the bedding over to the washing machine. He noted that the place looked livable again, but still needed considerable work.

Duncan found both Joe and Connor in the living room, the former sound asleep in the armchair, the latter sitting on the couch taking polishing solution to Richie's sword.

"There was blood everywhere," he said to Duncan without looking up. "The blade, the guard, even the hilt."

"Thank you," said Duncan, half-sitting, half-collapsing on the couch next to his kinsman.

"It will need another going-over, but that should be good enough for now," said Connor, laying the blade down on the now-spotless coffee table.

"Where did you find it?" Duncan asked.

"Sticking out of the kitchen wall," said Connor with a straight face. Duncan knew that he was too tired to be kidding so he just nodded.

"How's Richie?" Joe asked without opening his eyes.

Connor frowned. "I thought you were sleeping."

"Nah," Joe negated, stretching.

"He's still dead," Duncan answered the previous question. "But he seems to be healing. I cleaned him up as best I could."

Joe nodded. "I'm gonna go call a cab," he said, standing with much effort.

"I'll drive you," Duncan insisted, also standing.

"After how long you've been awake?" Joe scoffed. "Fat chance. I'm gonna go home, see how badly my locks are damaged, get some shut-eye, and then call headquarters to see if I can find out what really happened."

"Right," Duncan agreed, secretly grateful for Joe's insistence. He really was exhausted.

Joe made his way into the kitchen to use the phone he had spent ten minutes making sure was working properly. Connor and Duncan just sat in companionable silence, both too physically tired and emotionally drained to bother with conversation. Presently Joe returned from the kitchen.

"You two should get some sleep," he said, he himself yawning.

"Look who's talking," said Connor, tilting his head back and closing his eyes.

"I'll walk you out," said Duncan, rising. He and Joe descended the elevator and entered the main room of the dojo. Duncan picked up Joe's discarded suitcase and carried it outside, followed by the watcher. Just then they saw a cab approaching.

"Thank you, Joseph," Duncan said earnestly.

"You call me if you need anything," said Joe, equally as earnest. They stowed Joe's suitcase in the trunk and then Duncan opened the door so the watcher could climb in. "If I don't hear from you, I'll call you as soon as I learn something."

"Good night, Joe," said Duncan, smiling.

Joe returned the smile. "Good morning." Then he pulled the door shut and the cab drove away.

Duncan watched it go until it disappeared, grateful to have a watcher for a friend and not for the first time.

When Duncan returned to the apartment he saw that Connor hadn't moved from his position. Duncan smiled, thinking his kinsman was asleep, and walked over to a spot of carpet in front of the coffee table, grabbing a pillow from the couch on his way by, and made ready to go to sleep.

"What are you doing?" Connor asked with his eyes closed.

"Sleeping," said Duncan, non-committed.

"Here," said Connor, standing reluctantly. "Take the couch."

"What type of host would I be if I let my guest sleep on the floor?"

"You couch hurts my back," Connor informed him, making a show of stretching.

"Bullshit," Duncan declared, lying down on the floor.

"Why do you think I haven't lain down already?" Connor retorted, annoyed.

Duncan eyed the elder immortal critically for a moment, finally decided that he was too tired to care if Connor was too tired to lie convincingly, although the effort was much better than Duncan believed he himself could have managed.

"Fine," Duncan acquiesced with a long-suffering sigh. Then he stood and gestured to the pillow as he made his way to the couch. Connor walked over to the pillow, grinning when Duncan couldn't see his face. He decided it would be easier on his knees to just drop to the ground rather than lowering himself slowly. Duncan noted the way Connor seemed to melt into the floor and wondered in what pocket dimension his teacher had managed to hide his skeleton and if it was the same one that Methos used.

"Goodnight kinsman," Connor said in Gaelic, his eyes already closed.

"Good morning," Duncan returned, smiling slightly as he drifted off to sleep.


	5. Awakening

Duncan awoke at eight to use the restroom and decided to go in and check on Richie. The young immortal hadn't moved at all, but his color was better and the wounds were reduced to fine red lines, only the most serious ones still leaving traces. Duncan walked back to the living room, relieved that Richie would be awake by the afternoon and the truth would be known at last.

When he got back to couch he saw Connor curled up in the fetal position, and he suddenly realized that Connor was in a dress tee and khakis, proper business attire for the Indian sub-continent but hardly appropriate for a Seacouver fall morning, especially if you don't have any covers. Duncan saw the goose bumps on Connor's arms and cursed. Allowing Connor to insist that he take the floor was one thing, forgetting to offer Connor a change of clothes or even a blanket was entirely another. Duncan bent down by his kinsman and gently scooped him up. Connor didn't stir as Duncan carried him to the couch. His size and stature were proportionate to that of Methos or Richie, his height landing somewhere between the two, but he was still a good two inches shorter than Duncan. He had met his first death young, not much older than Richie was. Years of conditioning had given him considerable muscle mass, but had also conspired to take away almost all his body fat. Speed and agility were his weapons in the game, and being a lot stronger than he looked, but he could not best Duncan if it came down to brute strength.

As Duncan laid his teacher out on the couch and covered him with the afghan, he couldn't help but notice how small he looked, how young. He had gone nearly thirty-three hours without sleep, and in that time had his student, his _kin_, ripped away from him only to have him miraculously restored. He had worried over Richie to then find him safe, and had cleaned most of the apartment, since Duncan knew that he wouldn't have let Joe tackle anything strenuous or that involved heavy lifting. He looked so innocent lying there, like a lost child that could in no way be Duncan's elder, let alone his teacher. Belatedly Duncan would realize that it was because, for probably the first time since Duncan had known him, he was seeing him with all of his defenses down, stripped away by the ravages of both physical and emotional fatigue, leaving the peaceful image of a the skittish highland boy he once was.

Connor seemed to be swallowed up by the couch and buried by the afghan. Only the top of his face was sticking out. Duncan smoothed his hair out of his face, saying: "I love you too, Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," softly in Gaelic.

"_Blossom?_" Connor called out in his sleep, or at least that's what Duncan guessed it to be. The form of Gaelic Connor used was older than both of them. Duncan just let it lie and Connor shifted slightly before falling back into deeper sleep. Duncan lay down on the carpet, his head on the pillow, and went back to sleep.

* * *

Connor awoke near ten, startled slightly by his change of surroundings. He sat up and noticed Duncan was nowhere in sight. He didn't feel the presence of an immortal so he knew he was alone in the apartment (not counting Richie, still dead and therefore buzz-less). Six hours not nearly being enough sleep as far as Connor was concerned, he bounded off the couch with a curse, momentary—if irrational, panic at Duncan's absence setting in.

He had made it to standing when he felt it: the presence of another immortal. Connor picked up Richie's sword from the coffee table. _It's probably just Duncan…_ he thought as he quickly checked the sword's balance again. He moved out from between the couch and coffee table and faced the elevator, sword drawn in readiness.

"Duncan?" he called out hesitantly. Just then the elevator grate swung up and the absent highlander entered, carrying a newspaper and a takeout bag from Dunkin' Donuts.

"You keep greeting people with swords, coz, people are going to start answering you with challenges," said Duncan, his tone light. He put the newspaper on the counter and opened the takeout bag, procuring what looked to be a jelly donut, and extending it to Connor. "Donut?"

"You left…" was all Connor managed to say.

"Just to pick up some breakfast and a newspaper," Duncan explained innocently.

Connor took the jelly donut from him absently. "Thanks," he said weakly and put the sword on the counter.

Duncan began eating his donut. "You know, not having a table is starting to get annoying," he said between bites.

"How's Richie?" Connor asked, ignoring Duncan's statement.

"Most of the wounds are completely healed. It shouldn't be too long now."

Connor nodded, satisfied. "I don't remember deciding to switch sleeping arrangements," he said, his tone light but serious.

"You were shivering," said Duncan matter-of-factly.

"And you couldn't have just given me a blanket?" Connor asked, his voice darkening with exasperation.

"I did," Duncan replied, smiling the first genuine smile that Connor had seen from his kinsman since his miraculous return from the dead. The smile was contagious and Connor was at a loss for words. He decided it was best to eat his donut in silence lest he stick his foot in his mouth. They stayed in that companionable silence until the coffee machine went off.

"Coffee?" Duncan asked as he made his way over, silently grateful that that particular machine had been spared.

"Please," Connor answered, walking over to join him. "Black."

Duncan handed him a cup and they went back to the living room, Duncan sitting in the wing chair and Connor on the couch.

"We've still got quite a bit of cleaning to do," Duncan thought aloud.

"Aye," Connor agreed, sipping his coffee.

"You and Joe didn't do too badly last night though," Duncan offered.

"We did what we could."

Duncan looked at the pile of decorations and appliances on the kitchen counter, the ones that someone had thought could be salvaged. "Looks like I've got my work cut out for me."

"Aye," Connor agreed again. "Why don't you make Richie clean the rest?"

Duncan regarded the devilish grin on his teacher's face. "Trust me, he'll be helping," he assured.

Connor smirked. "Why do I not believe you?" They both laughed then lapsed back into silence.

Duncan took a moment to regard his teacher. He didn't look quite as small as he did last night. The Connor he knew was back, all traces of vulnerability shoved behind protective walls and an expressionless exterior, no traces of the pain he went through earlier showing on his features. Not for the first time, Duncan wondered what it was like for him, flying half way around the world thinking that his student was dead. Connor had lost other students, but he rarely talked about them. As far as Duncan knew he was the only surviving one, and they were clansmen. Receiving that phone call, from someone Duncan knew that Connor would have believed without question… he shuddered to think of what it did to the elder immortal.

Duncan knew Connor quite well, having spent more time with him under the same roof than he had with even Amanda. He knew Connor to be a man of few words, but over time had learned to read through much of the stoicism to get at what his teacher was really thinking. Right now he was simply sipping his coffee, pleasantly enjoying the reassurance of Duncan's company, and not brooding on anything that had happened in the last forty-eight hours.

A half-second later Duncan cursed silently that Connor had woken up while he was gone, not being able to feel the presence that barely hours ago he was convinced he'd never feel again. _You left_, Connor's words to him when he returned, simple and to the point, yet meaning so much more.

"Connor," Duncan began, breaking the silence.

"Duncan," Connor returned in their usual way, an acknowledgement but not an answer. Duncan didn't say more so Connor looked at him, the softness of Duncan's expression throwing the older immortal.

"I'm sorry," said Duncan with feeling.

"Not your fault, lad," Connor assured dismissively, returning to his coffee.

"I meant for leaving you this morning."

Connor's expression shifted slightly as he wondered how his former student had seen through him so clearly. "S'alright Duncan, don't worry about it," he tried to dismiss again, hoping that the man would drop this line of conversation.

"I was nearly in your shoes last night," Duncan mused, his voice thick.

"But you weren't," Connor reminded him, "so there's no sense in dwelling on it." His voice was soft, offering all the reassurances he could.

"I can't imagine—"

"Then don't," Connor swiftly cut him off. Then he looked away. "Pray you never have to."

Connor's gaze focused on the coffee table and he gripped his coffee mug securely between both hands. Duncan moved to sit beside him on the couch. Connor's expression was startled at first, then questioning. He put down the mug to regard his student more carefully.

"I'm here," was all Duncan said. He looked Connor straight in the eye and uttered two very simple words, yet they seemed to crack through the barriers Connor had already began constructing for himself.

"Damn you," Connor cursed him bitterly, closing his eyes against the sting of tears and wrapping his arms around his student protectively. Duncan returned the embrace and allowed Connor the moment. Then soon he shifted, adjusting his grip on Connor, and encouraged his kinsman to relax into the embrace. Connor stiffly obliged, allowing his head to rest on Duncan's shoulder. He had one arm around Duncan's neck and held the other against Duncan's chest, feeling his heartbeat like it was the most prized possession in the world. Everything had happened so fast that Connor had been denied the chance to appropriately deal with his own emotions. He hadn't grieved for Duncan, nor given himself a moment for comfort and relief after discovering his kinsman was in fact alive. Duncan again marveled at how Connor seemed once again so small to him now, when his earliest memories of his teacher were of a man larger than life.

"Why do you have to be so emotional?" Connor asked at last, his voice tired.

"Sue me," Duncan dismissed, and they both laughed a great, tension-releasing laugh. Then finally they regained their composure and fully disentangled themselves. Now they sat separately on the couch, though close enough that their shoulders were still touching.

"If you _ever_ do that to me again, so help me God _Donnchadh_ I'll kill you myself." Connor's voice was deadly serious, and any other man might have been fooled.

Duncan just smiled. "I'm going to go check on Richie," he said, standing at last. Connor rose with him and followed, but stood in the doorway as Duncan checked the progress of Richie's wounds.

"You did a good job," Connor appraised, admiring how clean Duncan had managed to get the place. "How is he?"

"It looks like the wounds have completely healed," Duncan observed.

Connor nodded in satisfaction. "Good."

"Now we just have to wait for the drugs to clear his system."

"I'm willing to bet that he isn't going to want to touch another drop for a very long time," Connor mused, grinning.

"You're probably right," Duncan agreed, walking over to where Connor stood.

"Look, Duncan," Connor began, his expression suddenly serious. "The kid's had a rough weekend and an even worse night. Perhaps you should make yourself scarce until after he revives."

"I want to be here when he wakes up," Duncan protested.

"I know you do, but Duncan, he thinks your dead. Imagine the shock when he revives to see you staring down at him."

"If it were me what would you do?" Duncan challenged, but the stricken looked it earned from Connor instantly made him regret it. He was about to say something more but Connor beat him to it.

"I would have listened to Ramirez's advice," he said evenly.

Duncan couldn't help the impish grin. "Bullshit."

"Sue me," Connor echoed Duncan's earlier phrase, returning the grin.

At last Duncan sighed. He knew his kinsman was right. "I'm going to take some of the stuff down and try and repair it in the office. Call the dojo the instant he wakes up."

"Of course," Connor agreed. He followed Duncan out to the kitchen. Duncan grabbed the broken lamp and a broken chair and headed to the elevator.

Connor lifted the grate for him. "I'll take care of him," he promised.

Duncan smiled softly. "I know." And he was on his way down.

After the elevator descended Connor went back into the living room to wash out the coffee mugs. That being done he went into Duncan's bedroom. He sat on the other side of the bed, resting up against the headboard, and waited patiently for Richie to revive.

* * *

An hour later Connor got his wish.

The immortal presence suddenly thundered to life and preceded Richie's first gasping intake of breath only slightly. With that breath Richie's eyes flew open as he was suddenly aware of the presence of another immortal.

"Relax laddie, it's just me," Connor reassured him softly.

Richie shifted his position quickly, looking up to be able to see who was addressing him. "Connor?" Richie blinked a few times and found himself staring up into the elder immortal's face.

"Aye lad."

Richie visibly relaxed and let out an extended sigh. "How long have you—"

"Since last night."

"Last night?" Richie asked hesitantly, too proud to admit that he hadn't a clue what day it was.

"It's just after eleven a.m. Monday morning," Connor supplied with a sad smile.

"Monday," Richie echoed, nodding. He closed his eyes and sighed again.

"I take it you found Renault," Connor said neutrally, giving nothing away.

Richie nodded in the affirmative. Then he opened his eyes and glanced about the room. "You cleaned," he said.

Connor nodded, smirking slightly. "I had lots of time on my hands."

Richie blushed slightly. "I kinda made a wreck of the place," he admitted, resignation in his voice.

"Yes you did," Connor agreed without judgment.

"I'm sorry," Richie weakly apologized. "I'll clean it up." The defeated tone in his voice was painful to hear.

"It's mostly done now," Connor assured him, not knowing what else to say.

Richie blinked in confusion. "You?"

Connor nodded. "Joe helped."

"Joe…" Richie breathed, his voice catching in his throat. He took a deep breath and forced his emotions under. "Where was he?" The lost quality of his voice was even more unbearable than the defeat.

"Watcher business," Connor explained, still in neutral tones.

Richie nodded again in understanding. "He must be taking this pretty hard," he said, looking fearfully up at Connor.

"He was more worried about you last night," Connor informed him.

The wrong thing to say.

Richie shut his eyes and inhaled sharply, the emotions seeming to cause physical pain. "Is he here," he asked at last.

"He was. He went to go do whatever it is that watchers do. And to make sure that no one else had broken in to his house."

Richie smiled slightly at that. "It was the only thing I could think of," he explained. Then his expression grew hesitant as he looked at Connor again. "Is he mad?"

"Impressed," Connor corrected, finally smiling himself.

Richie relaxed a bit. "I hope he doesn't get in trouble because of me," he said at length.

"He won't," Connor assured him. "You did good laddie."

"Not good enough," Richie countered softly, looking away.

Connor would have none of that. He cupped Richie's chin and forced him to look at him. "You listen to me, laddie," he said seriously. "It's not your fault. It isn't you job to protect Duncan. If anything it was his job to protect you, and he did. You were good enough to beat Renault. You didn't fail him, Richie." Connor was smiling now, though his tone was very serious.

"I know how he beat Mac," Richie said at last, and Connor released his chin. "He cheats. Bad."

"So I read. Duncan was never good with anticipating foul play," Connor reminisced with a grimace, once again telling the honest truth.

"When he saw that I wasn't going to be an easy kill he brought out a taser."

Connor smiled knowingly. "You were ready for it though."

"I remember Mac said that something similar was used to kill Darius. I bought some sort of varnish at the hardware store. The label said it can make even metal non-conductive it the entire thing is covered in it."

"You treated you sword?"

"The hilt. Didn't want to dull the edge."

Connor nodded in approval.

"He modified it though. The dart was sharp—stuck me good. And the wire was made out of something my sword wouldn't cut through."

"Teflon-coated probably," Connor interjected.

Richie nodded once in thoughtful acquiescence before continuing. "Anyway, I read about how he used those glorified cattle prods, so I coated my sword hilt in non-conductive shellac. I was able to wrap the wire around the blade and use the leverage to rip the dart out, and with my hilt protected I wasn't grounded anymore."

"So the electricity had nowhere to go," Connor concluded.

Richie nodded again. "Boy was he mighty surprised when I ripped that thing out of his hands."

"I'll bet he was," Connor agreed, deciding not to ask how long Richie was being shocked before he was able to get his sword up.

"He was pretty pissed then, too," Richie continued, "and he took out his gun."

Connor inhaled sharply. "Kevlar?"

"Too restrictive," Richie lamented. "I was just lucky his shot was off."

"Did he hit you?" Connor asked. He didn't recall seeing any gunshot wounds on Richie's body.

"In the fencing cup," Richie admitted, blushing slightly.

Connor laughed, finally the familiar staccato returning.

"It hurt like a bitch," Richie went on, "but the bullet deflected. I played up how hurt I was, and then knocked the gun out of his hand."

"Oh, he must have _loved_ that," Connor mused with laughing sarcasm.

"Not as much as the part where he realized he had no more tricks left and had to fight me fair and square," Richie informed him, finally the ghost of a genuine smile gracing his haunted features.

"Why didn't you use the gun?" Connor asked, the serious tone returning to his voice.

Richie returned his gaze to Connor innocently, as if the man had just asked him why two plus two equals four. "That's not what Mac would have done," he answered quietly.

In that moment Connor's heart ached to tell Richie that it was all a big mistake and that Duncan was sitting in his office in the dojo this very second waiting for him to go downstairs, but he couldn't yet. He had to give Richie time to adjust and unwind after the emotional ordeal he'd been through, and he wanted to make sure that Richie had fully absorbed Renault's quickening as the headhunter's was the most powerful one he's had to assimilate to date.

"No," Connor admitted sadly. Then he sighed. "Why don't you take a shower, freshen up a bit. Then you can tell me all about how you nailed that son of a bitch."

"Sure," Richie agreed submissively. He climbed out of bed without saying a word about finding himself in his boxers.

"Leave those outside the bathroom, I'll throw them in the wash," Connor directed as Richie inspected how bloody his shorts were. Then he grabbed Duncan's bathrobe from the closet.

"Trash them," he ordered without feeling as he slipped into a robe, his back to Connor, and dropped the boxers to the floor. He stepped out of them without another word and headed to the bathroom.

Connor did as he was told and trashed the boxers. Then he took both sheets out to the washing machine and ran the wash cycle with the things Duncan had already put in the machine. Finally he picked up the phone and called to dojo.

"Connor?" Duncan's voice answered.

"He's awake," Connor informed his kinsman.

"Thank God," Duncan breathed. "I'll be right up."

"He's in the shower now," said Connor, stopping him. "We'll come down to you when he gets out."

Duncan was silent for a moment, weighing the benefits of arguing the point. "Alright," he acquiesced finally.

"Well be there presently," said Connor, and he hung up the phone. Then he went to the kitchen to reheat the coffee and wait for Richie to get out of the shower.

Much to his surprise Richie was done in barely twenty minutes. He emerged into the kitchen still wearing Duncan's bathrobe, which was considerably large on him. His arms were wrapped around his body protectively, his hands hidden by the sleeves. The robe came down to his ankles and the shoulders and collar were bunched up from not resting properly. Richie seemed to be enveloped by the thing, barely clinging to it as if it were a lifeline and without a moment's notice he could be swallowed whole.

"Coffee?" Connor offered, handing Richie a mug.

"Thanks," Richie said meekly as he took it, his fingers barely visible as he held the handle.

Connor led him to the living room. Richie sat on the couch and Connor sat in the chair, and turned to face him.

"A table would be best, but…" Connor's voice trailed as he sat down.

Richie smiled slightly. "Sorry about that. I'll replace it eventually."

"Don't worry about it."

They sat in companionable silence drinking coffee. Connor couldn't help but notice the similarity.

"Mac could-a taken him, if he hadn't cheated," Richie said at last. There was no emotion in his voice; it was as if he were simply stating facts.

"I know," Connor agreed with sad sympathy.

"It's funny," Richie began after considerable pause. "All the other times I've fought someone, it's been… different."

"How so?" Connor asked, not wanting to guess.

"I dunno. It was just… different. I can't describe it. It was like, all those other times, I was either challenged, so it was like, for survival or something, or I was the challenger, so it was for… other reasons." Richie was struggling to form the right words, meanings lost in the void of what he wanted to say.

"And this was different?" Connor prompted.

"Yeah," Richie agreed. "Well, I mean, I was the challenger, but… I dunno. Those other times, I was just reacting. I would remember what Mac taught me and I would do it. Sure there were times when I screwed up. I've taken enough hits to prove that. But then they would do something—a textbook mistake, and it would be just like in training. I'd disarm them and then… I wouldn't even realize it was over 'til after I'd done it." Richie explained all of this to his coffee, as if it would be able to give him the answers.

"Sense memory," Connor offered.

Richie nodded. "But this time was different."

"Oh?"

Richie looked up at Connor now, fear still lingering in his eyes. "It was like I could hear Mac inside my head. We started the fight, and it was like I could hear Mac asking me all these questions. How long was his reach? Where did he carry his weight? What type of sword was he carrying? Where was the weak part of the blade? I would answer each question and then another would form." Richie paused to see if Connor was following him, and the elder immortal nodded for him to continue.

"When we actually began trading strokes, I heard Mac again. Was he being aggressive or cautious? Did he have any discernable pattern or speed? Where were his feet? Did he telegraph with his eyes? It was so easy to fight him then. He was a good opponent—probably the best I've faced, but it was like, with Mac there coaching me, inside my head, I knew that I'd win." His explanation finished, Richie returned his gaze to the coffee.

Connor took his time formulating an appropriate response. "When I was finally able to avenge Ramirez I had a similar experience. I wasn't confident that I'd win, but it was comforting to have Ramirez with me again." It surprised him that he was telling the truth. Maybe it had something to do with the importance of avenging one's teacher?

Richie looked up at him in understanding. "He was your teacher," he said, and Connor nodded. "It was like that the whole fight," Richie continued. "When he pulled out the taser, I heard Mac's voice, 'just like Darius.' During the actual swordfight, I heard him tell me every move. Like he was choreographing it from inside my head. We both landed shots, but it was like Mac wouldn't let me get tired. We fought for a long time. Whoever got tired first would lose their head."

"And he got tired first," Connor finished for him, trying to sound cheerful. The sound seemed almost sacrilegious in the face of Richie's sorrow.

"Yeah," Richie agreed although rather blandly as he returned his attention to his coffee.

Silence fell about them like a shroud. Then just when Connor thought that Richie wasn't going to speak again he continued the tale.

"He came down at an angle on my off side, but it was sloppy. Too tired. I think his sword was too heavy for a long fight. I blocked it easy. I pushed his blade up hard, throwing him off balance. His arms were above his head. I got him with a downward slash across his chest. He grabbed the wound with his weak hand, but couldn't hold his sword in just one after so long. He looked… scared, when it suddenly clanged on the pavement. I cut him again, across the stomach. Deep. He doubled over, clutching at it. He was bent forward. I took his head." Richie finished the tale and sat back into the couch.

Connor tried to hide his impressed smile. "Duncan would be proud," he said softly.

"Yeah," Richie agreed, not doing anything about the silent tears that rolled down his cheeks and splattered onto the coffee table.

Connor couldn't take much more of this. He had to tell him that Duncan was alive. He put his arm around Richie and the lad leaned into the embrace without making a sound, just letting himself be held. Connor was trying to search for the right way to go about telling him the truth when Richie spoke again.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice hoarse and barely a whisper.

"For what, lad?" Connor asked, surprised at Richie's sudden confession.

"I know he was your student, your… family," Richie said with difficulty.

"He's your family too," Connor reminded him sincerely.

Richie laughed slightly then, a choked and bitter laugh. "I remember when he went to go fight Martin Hyde. He gave me a bottle of brandy and told me to wait for him on the bridge, and we'd drink it when he got back. I did what he said, but that waiting… The fight took a while I guess. I started to get really worried. I told myself that if he didn't come back, that I would train really hard for a year or so, get really good so that I would stand a chance, and then go hunt the bastard down. I had it all planned out. I would put a marker for him, next to Tessa, and another in the Highlands." Richie's voice broke near the end and Connor held him tighter.

"I'm sure he would like that," he said soothingly.

Richie shuddered slightly before continuing. "And after I'd avenged him, I would change my name. Richard Ryan MacLeod. He was my… the last… I—I just want him to know that." This time Richie couldn't stop the sobs. They came as freely as the tears. Connor just held him and rubbed his back, whispering soothing things to him in Gaelic.

"He knows laddie," he said once Richie had finally calmed down some.

"I know," Richie agreed with a touch of bitterness. Then he tapped his temple. "He's in here."

"Is that why you took the pills?" Connor asked carefully, thinking he'd finally found a way to end the anguish.

Richie nodded. "At first, it was just Renault. On the ride home the others started. I saw flashes mostly—faces I didn't recognize, feelings that weren't mine. Swords. I knew that Mac was in there somewhere, and I… I didn't want to see it."

"I understand," Connor said truthfully. "I felt the same way after killing the Kurgan."

"He doesn't belong in here!" Richie suddenly yelled, his voice full of emotion. It brought on another bought of sobs. Connor simply held him close and let him cry.

"There's nowhere else he'd rather be," he said at last.

"Really?" Richie asked, uncertain.

Connor nodded. "You're family."

Richie was silent for a moment at this, shutting his eyes against the pain. "I just wish I'd a told him…" The despair and hopelessness in his voice now replaced the anguish and pain. "He was the only real family I'd ever had. And I never told him…"

"Maybe not with words lad, but you told him. Believe me you told him." Connor's voice was full of sympathy, but he meant every word he'd said. "And he's not your only family."

Richie looked up questioningly at that.

Connor smiled in sad amusement at his need to clarify for the boy. "If _Duncan_ MacLeod was family to you Richie, what do you think that makes me?"

Richie stared at him blankly for a few moments before realization dawned on him, then he shut his eyes against a shuddering inhale. "Connor MacLeod." He said the word like a benediction and for the first time wrapped his arms around the elder immortal, finally returning the embrace that Connor had offered.

Richie clung to him with all his might as he cried. Connor was the last tether that kept him connected to Duncan. His shoulders were too narrow, and he wasn't the right height. He didn't feel the ponytail against his forearms as he held him. It wasn't _Duncan_, but it was _Connor_. A MacLeod. Duncan's teacher. Duncan's kin. It wasn't the same, but for right now, it was enough. Richie had someone tangible again, and was aware, perhaps for the first time since learning of Duncan's death, that he wasn't alone, not in life and certainly not in grief. For as long as Connor lived he would have someone out there who cared, someone he could call family, and for right now, Richie was quite certain that Connor wasn't going anywhere.


	6. Surprise!

They had both been quiet for quite a while when Richie finally pulled away. He had stopped crying and Connor was fairly certain that he was done, at least until he reunited with Duncan that is.

Connor stood. "I think I need a drink," he said as he picked up the coffee mugs.

Richie blushed. "I'm afraid there's not much left."

"I'll find something," said Connor with an impish grin. "Why don't you go get dressed?"

"Yes sir," Richie agreed submissively, making Connor sigh.

When Richie came back he was wearing a pear of Duncan's sweats. They still looked big on him, but not as bad as the robe had looked. Richie had washed his face again and was looking more like his usual self, albeit rather withdrawn.

"Orange juice?" Connor offered Richie a glass.

"Thank you," said Richie, taking the glass but meaning so much more.

"What's family for?" Connor asked rhetorically with a grin. He allowed Richie a moment to drink his juice, but then decided that it was high time he got on with business. "Have you fully absorbed the quickening?" he asked tentatively.

Richie nodded. "I believe so. I still get flashes of things, but I can't quite place them. There are no concrete feelings, no images."

Connor nodded, steeling his resolve. "Did you see any traces of Duncan?"

Richie blinked. "No, but then I was dead for most of it." Then his gaze dropped to the floor. "I'm sorry."

"That's alright," Connor reassured him. Then he took a moment to mentally brace himself for what was to come. "I can tell you that even if you decided to live through it you would have found naught of Duncan."

Richie cocked his head slightly, not understanding. "You mean you don't think I'd have been able to pick him out of the crowd?" he asked, unsure.

"I mean his face wasn't _in_ the crowd."

Richie shook his head slightly, not following.

Connor pressed on. "Duncan and Joseph had gone to Oregon on watcher business. You were right about Renault being in town for Duncan, but he hadn't found him yet."

Richie just stood there. He blinked a few times and shook his head, trying to understand what Connor was telling him. "What are you saying?" he asked, barely above a whisper.

"I'm saying that it was all a mistake, Richard. Duncan was out of town when Renault arrived. You thought that Renault had taken Duncan's head, but he hadn't found him yet. You found Renault at the airport. He was flying to Portland to hunt for Duncan! You stopped him, thinking that Duncan was already dead, but he wasn't. He's alive, _Ridseard_. Donnchadh is alive!" Connor finished with his hands resting on Richie's shoulders, and in his insistence he'd slipped and referred to both Duncan and Richie by their Gaelic names.

Richie just stood there, white as a sheet, eyes wide with disbelief. "Mac's… alive?" He asked, his voice working by sheer willpower.

"Yes," Connor assured him, both exhaustion and relief obvious in his voice. "He and Joe came back late last night. They were here when I arrived. Duncan took care of you while Joe and I cleaned the apartment. He's downstairs in the dojo office now, waiting for you."

"But… it can't be," Richie breathed, his voice strained.

"But it is," Connor insisted. "Trust me, if immortals could have heart attacks I would have had one when I saw Duncan standing there alive without a care in the world about Renault. He's alive, Richie. Alive."

Richie shook his head slightly, as if the motion could force his brain to comprehend. "But… why?" he asked after a pause.

Fortunately Connor was prepared for this. "That's my fault, Richie. You had been through so much recently, the condition of the apartment, not to mention your own, a clear testimony to that. You had lost him, avenged him, and died. I didn't think waking up to find him sitting next to you would have been the… healthiest, way to let you know."

Richie stood motionless for a moment, letting it all sink in. Duncan was _alive!_

"The shock was nearly too much for me, and _I_ didn't have to worry about Renault," Connor added, not knowing what else to say.

Eventually something inside Richie clicked and he nodded slowly. "You wanted to let me down gently," he concluded. Some of the color was returning to his face.

"Something like that," Connor admitted.

"You call… _that_… easy?" Richie argued in disbelief, referring to everything that had just happened.

"Well no, but I wanted to give you the chance to grieve."

"But… I didn't have to."

"Yes, you did," Connor insisted. "You needed to deal with his loss. Even if it wasn't permanent, at the time you thought it was. Learning the truth doesn't miraculously make all those feelings you weren't dealing with go away." Connor spoke from experience, and somehow Richie understood that.

"Did you—"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Earlier. With Duncan."

"Oh." Richie nodded and half smiled. He knew what Connor had meant now. Crying like a baby was one thing, a necessary part of the cathartic process of acceptance and grief. He was grateful Connor had been there for him. Now he knew why. Connor had gone through the same thing, only he didn't have someone detached to share it with. He had Duncan.

Richie's smile became genuine. He knew that he probably wouldn't have been able to grieve properly with Duncan sitting there. Connor had let him get it all out of his system. The process certainly wasn't over, but it was the biggest and most necessary step to take. Now he knew that he would be able to forego the rest, but he knew that he also needed the release on the couch to get past the shock of the loss and the pain of the weekend whether Duncan was alive or no. That being done, he knew that Duncan was downstairs waiting for him. His grin broke out into honest, genuine laughter. He had dealt with his emotions and now Duncan was alive. It was like a lifetime of birthdays and Christmases all rolled into one brilliant moment.

The quality of Richie's laughter told Connor that he had understood and bore him no ill will because of it, which allowed Connor to laugh in relief and share in the joy.

"Come on," he said, smiling, "Duncan's waiting."

They headed into the elevator and Connor told it to descend.

"What did you call me?" Richie asked suddenly.

"Hmm?"

"Back there, when you told me, you called me something."

Connor's confusion fell into a sheepish grin once he realized what Richie was talking about. "_Ridseard_," he repeated. "It's your name, in Gaelic."

Richie just grinned and shook his head, too happy right now to pursue the topic once the answer had been given. Then suddenly Connor whispered something in Richie's ear, and Richie turned to him, his smile now ten times broader.

The buzz hit them just as the elevator hit the ground floor. Connor lifted the grate, but Richie was out into the dojo before it had reached the top.

"Mac!" He called, sprinting to the office.

At the buzz Duncan had stood from his desk. Now he stood in the office doorframe and saw Richie running towards him. Richie stopped about ten feet away, a wide grin on his face, drinking in the sight in front of him. Connor approached and stood slightly behind him.

"Richie," Duncan greet cautiously, almost afraid to smile. He then nodded to Connor, who did smile.

Richie took a few faltering steps forward. Duncan matched them, not wanting to rush the lad. After those first few steps Richie found his momentum and he made his way to Duncan.

"_I love you Donnchadh_," he said as he threw his arms around his teacher, the Gaelic rolling off his tongue quite naturally.

If Duncan held any illusions about keeping his composure during this reunion they were shattered here. He returned Richie's embrace.

"_I love you too,_ _Ridseard_," Duncan answered in Gaelic as he felt the tears slide down his cheeks.

Richie laughed slightly, his voice choked with emotion. "That's my name in Gaelic," he said. "Connor told me."

Duncan looked over at Connor, who winked, and then hugged Richie tighter. "I'll teach you more sometime," he vowed.

Connor turned around and headed back to the elevator. He had already has his moments with Duncan, now it was Richie's turn and he didn't want to interfere. He had reached the grate when Joe Dawson walked through the doorway.

"Look who's alive," the watcher said cheerfully.

Richie and Duncan slid out of their embrace, but Richie kept a reassuring hold on Duncan's sleeve. Duncan noticed this and smiled, resolving not to mention it.

"Joe!" Richie exclaimed enthusiastically, gesturing with his free hand.

"You look much better than you did early this morning."

"I feel better, Joe, believe me."

Joe stuck his hand out and Richie shook it eagerly, only pausing for a moment before releasing his right hand from Duncan's sleeve. The highlander didn't move at all.

"Glad to hear it," said Joe. "Congratulations on Renault, by the way," he added as they parted hands.

Richie's jaw clenched at the same time his face paled. "I killed him," he said matter-of-factly, but his voice held hints of anger and disgust. "Mac, I thought he'd killed you, and—"

"Don't worry about it, tough guy," Duncan dismissed. "He was in town for my head."

"You stopped him before he could get to Duncan," Connor added, just now joining the conversation.

"I guess this means I owe you," Duncan concluded lightly.

"Let me out of cleanup duty we'll and call it even," Richie offered seriously, though his eyes were still shining, and everyone laughed. "But seriously Mac," Richie continued soberly, "where the hell were you?" There was touch of anger in his voice at the question.

"I'm afraid it's my fault," Joe admitted truthfully. "My car broke down and I needed to be in Oregon early the next morning. Mac graciously offered to give me a ride both ways."

Richie nodded. It made sense. "The funeral?" he asked.

"An old friend of mine. A watcher."

"And Mike?"

"He's still in Oregon, visiting relatives in the area."

Richie nodded again. Everything was fitting into place. He felt rather foolish for it all, and guilty, especially for putting Connor through it too. "I'm sorry," he said to no one in particular, but it was Connor who answered him.

"For what exactly? You were worried about Duncan, and did everything in your power to discern his whereabouts. You exhausted every lead, every possibility, and eventually arrived at the only possible conclusion. Granted you may have committed a little breaking and entering, thievery, and hacked a computer or two, but for what purpose? To avenge your teacher. Duncan would have done the same for me and had I the resources back then I wouldn't have had to wait four hundred years to do the same for Ramirez. It's what we do, lad. It's part of the game. You should never apologize for that." Connor's words were honest and true, but Richie still had one more concern.

"You're not gonna get in trouble, are you?" he asked Joe, sounding small.

"Who me?" Joe asked nonchalantly. "Nah. All you did was view those files. You didn't try and copy the database or change information or anything like that. It should look like I accessed the database while in Oregon to check up on a lead I had about an immortal coming for Mac's head." Joe was being overly optimistic, but right now it didn't matter. All that mattered was reassuring Richie, and if he had to lie through his teeth to do so then so be it. He would deal with the consequences later.

"In any case," he went on, "let's not worry about it now. I believe the dead man over here was going to take us all to lunch."

"I what?" asked Duncan, surprised and amused.

"That's a wonderful idea Duncan," Connor agreed, catching on. "I don't remember the last time I had a decent meal."

"Depends how you define decent," Richie said.

"I seem to recall a lovely Italian place in the heights…" Connor suggested as he lead Duncan towards the front door. Joe and Richie followed suit, and moments later the dojo doors closed behind four very happy individuals.


End file.
